There Are Only Ashes Here
by fukuji mihoko
Summary: Clair can't speak unless given words. She can't think without given thoughts. But, if she could feel, she's sure she would hate Battler. When he broke his promise, he destroyed her. And he never apologised.  :Clair/Battler/Beatrice, spoilers for ep7:
1. Drifting

**There Are Only Ashes Here  
**Chapter One

'Existing'

* * *

In a near-empty space made of fragmented worlds, sparkling lights and shooting stars, Clair Vaux Bernardus drifts.

She supposes she should feel lonely. That seems only logical; after all, wasn't Shannon distraught when Battler never returned? Loneliness, like being lovesick, is a poison that plagues humans.

But Clair has never felt lonely.

She doubts she knows how.

Clair isn't a person, after all. She's not given the luxury of emotion.

To that servant girl- the clumsy one, who kept losing her keys in strange places because she couldn't pull herself out of her daydreams - Clair was little more than imaginary friend.

To the younger servants on Rokkenjima Clair was the phantom of the witch dressed in white, attired in an elegant dress with pearls in her hair, who wandered the corridors at night, opening windows so the cold air would rush in, biting through flesh and bone.

To the older servants Clair was nothing more than a tool; a device used (an old story, starting with wolves and ending with witches- wolves don't live on Rokkenjima, but how do you disprove an illusion?) to keep the younger servants and the Ushiromiya children out of the forest.

There are no witches in the forest.

There are other dangers, though; real, more tangible dangers, such as stinging nettles, poisonous ivy, or slipping off a sheer rock face into the churning cauldron of waves and rocks below.

There is no need for witches when the world is already saturated with dangers and potential deaths- and, in any case, humans can do the most terrible things when pushed into it.

Sometimes, they don't need to be pushed at all.

To everybody else in the world, Clair is nothing.

Clair isn't the spectral figure of a witch whose presence sends chills up and down the spine, because anybody with half a gram of common sense knows witches don't exist. The only 'real' witches in the world are latent desires that lurk in the hearts of humans.

Clair is nothing more than a doll; a missing piece from a chess board who has already been taken.

She was never given a chance to play in that girl's carefully orchestrated mystery novel to begin with.

Clair was created by that lonely, pitiable child. The child who, at first, wanted a friend.

And then that child wanted power.

But, finally, that child came to desire the one thing most humans search for their entire lives.

They wanted love.

Those feelings of love were too vast, too crippling, too painful for that child though, weren't they? Shannon waited on her island for years and years, like a princess in a castle guarded by thorns, for her fairytale prince to arrive on his white horse- because he promised, didn't he? In fairytales people _always _keep their promises and the good little princess who waits and waits and waits _always _gets her happy ending.

Isn't that how all the stories go?

But life isn't a story, and it didn't work that way.

The prince never came to rescue the princess.

All of Shannon's hopeful dreams, wistful imaginings and love, love, love- love so deep it twisted the heart and warped the mind and made that child cry into her pillow every night because it _wasn't_ beautiful, it wasn't even tragic, it was just _pathetic_- was crushed underfoot, like a delicate flower.

It bloomed, and then it withered- but it never died.

Instead, that child tore out her feelings- pulled them from her chest with her fingernails, scratching at flesh and emotion until sores opened up and she bled pain and tears and bright red crimson- and forced them into the heart of somebody else.

That child made an illusion of a witch with a heart that pumped dust take her years upon years of piled-up hopes and dreams and misery and love- so much love- in her place.

But Clair had never been in love before.

She was a witch.

She wasn't _designed_ to love.

Clair had been born from a small child's desire to be powerful; to be feared, and revered, and respected. That child had been so small, and sad, and pitiable; always losing her keys, always being scolded by the older maids. It was only natural she wanted to place herself on a pedestal- to try and _become _one of the witches or demons from old folklore, because then nobody would scold her losing her keys anymore.

That was Clair.

Clair was the person that clumsy servant girl had wanted to be. Clair was the image of perfection; her white dress pristine, as it floated eerily through the corridors like a shroud. Her hair was white, too, and laced with pearls so it shone with a ghostly aura under dim lighting. And yet, despite her elegance- her movements as graceful as falling snowflakes- Clair had been able to inspire terror in others, with her demonic laugh and eyes so intensely blue they burnt like the innermost flame in a burning blaze.

That had been Clair.

Except- no, it hadn't. Not really.

That had been _Beatrice._

And that child hadn't been content with her grandiose ideas of witchcraft and magic and hiding poor Asune's keys for very long.

Because Ushiromiya Battler arrived.

And, all of a sudden, childish make-believe and delusions of power weren't enough anymore.

Witches weren't enough.

_Beatrice_ wasn't enough.

So that child disposed of the old Beatrice- the ghostly Beatrice in white with pearls in her hair- and fashioned a new facet of her personality to be the living container for the madness and pain and misery that was love.

The new Beatrice looked nothing like Clair. She was made to match Battler's desires; the Western look, the blonde hair, and the curvy figure. In comparison, Clair was too thin, too waifish- far too ethereal, with skin so papery-white her blue veins could be seen with alarming clarity.

And Clair- whose heart could not contain the maelstrom of emotion that was 'love'- was tossed aside, like an unwanted doll in her pristine dress with the pearls in her hair and the dust in her veins.

Clair was no longer Beatrice, the witch of the forest.

And, to that end, she never had been.

She was just a small child's delusion.

An imaginary friend.

An imaginary friend that child had grown out of her.

Clair couldn't speak unless that child gave her words.

Clair couldn't think unless that child gave her thoughts.

And yet, even so, Clair continued to exist.

Saying no words.

Thinking no thoughts.

Her heart pumping dust.

But existing, all the same.

Clair was sure (or as sure as she could be, with her stiff dolls' limbs covered in dust and her heart that ceased to beat) that, if she did have the luxury of emotion- as she had possessed once before, whilst she had been Beatrice- then she would have hated that child.

She would have hated the new, blonde, beautiful Beatrice.

And, above all, she would have hated Ushiromiya Battler.

That child cut open her heart and spilt all her pain- all her grief- into Clair. And Clair could have taken all that, _and_ more, because she was that child's Pandora's box. Clair's body was filled with pride, her blood circulating arrogance, and she existed to be powerful. She was the strong, confident witch that child aspired to be; and was, perhaps, the side of her personality that child was afraid of.

Clair was the personification of that child's darker feelings; the feelings she wanted to distance from herself.

So Clair could have accepted the pain, and she could have accepted the grief. They were just two more secrets to be pushed into her carcass; just two more things to hide.

But, with that pain and grief, there came something else.

Love.

So much love.

That child had been so filled with love it was spilling out her veins, running from her mouth- washing down the drain.

And Clair simply couldn't fit that much love inside her.

Clair was a strong, proud witch.

Clair hadn't been made to love.

It was that love that had killed her.

There had been a blinding flash of white- a moment of pain, pain such as Clair had never experienced before, as though her ribs were been torn apart (something was trying to get at her insides, she was going to bleed to death all over her lovely white dress)- and then the cold, hard, uncaring fingers of an unrequited love spanning four long, _long_ years took hold of her heart.

That love took hold of her heart and _crushed _it.

Clair collapsed, like a marionette with cut strings.

And now Clair was trapped. Trapped in this strange, lonely plain of fragmented worlds and shooting stars, still wearing that lily-white dress with peals in her hair.

But that child never called upon her again.

A new Beatrice took Clair's blue, blue eyes, and Clair's old demonic allies, and Clair's place in that child's heart.

A new Beatrice took that child's love.

And Clair was left to...

Exist.

Endlessly.

Forever.

Once upon a time, that child had needed her.

Now, Clair was nothing more than a dusty old doll, not even given the dignity of a proper burial. She had not been placed into a coffin, eaten up by the earth; instead, she'd been eaten by a storm of love so raw and acute it tore her flesh, and then thrown onto the floor when she couldn't cram any more of those feelings inside her ruptured heart.

Clair's limbs were still, and her eyes were unblinking, and her heart remained still- frozen- inside the empty cavity of her ribs.

Forgotten.

That beautiful white dress and the pearls, that were to signify her status as a witch- the ruler of Rokkenjima's night- were now nothing more than her funeral clothes.

And, as the years passed by, Clair Vaux Bernadus- that clumsy maid's imaginary friend, whose existence had only ever been as tentative as a candle's flame in a howling gale- realised something.

She was going to die alone.

She wouldn't scream, because she couldn't, and she wasn't going to be afraid, because she couldn't remember how.

So, maybe, it didn't matter whether she lived or died at all; because nobody cared.

Not that child.

_Certainly _not Battler.

...Not even herself.

* * *

**a/n:** I love Clair. A lot. She's so lovely and miserable :D I'm not actually sure if this is completely canon compliant, though :/ I mean, the rest of the fic won't be (Battler/Clair ftw), but I'm a little iffy over what happens to Clair when she was acting as Beatrice, and accepted Shannon's love. She might just have become Beatrice, but I decided to make Clair and Beato two different facets of Yasu's personality here instead. I hope this doesn't cause any issues? ;A;

This'll only have like four chapters, btw, and I'll get thru em pretty quick XD

**renahhchen xoxo**


	2. Whiteout

**There Are Only Ashes Here  
**Chapter Two

'Whiteout'

* * *

Something isn't right here.

For too long- longer, now, than she can remember- Clair has been trapped in a fragile world of undulating color and never-ending darkness. The flickering lights change over time; they distort and twist and trace strange patterns in the empty void, always moving, like stars in the night sky of humans. Everything changes in Clair's strange, cold, lonely universe.

The only things that remain constant are the darkness, and Clair.

Nothing else.

In the 'world' where Clair resides there is no sun. There is no moon. There is no breeze.

Just Clair, drifting, between bits of fragmented world like broken crockery; shooting stars and color and darkness.

But that's all different now.

Clair can feel a gentle caress against her pale face. The hem of her dress is rustling, stirred by unseen hands. Some strange force of nature- 'wind', Clair's mind manages to fix a name to it, even though it's been a long time (so many years) since she actually felt it for herself- is running through her hair, sending delicate, wispy tendrils flying in a hazy aura about her.

Clair is not in her universe anymore.

Something has changed.

As her non-existence (that, never the less, wouldn't stop _existing_) spanned an endless number of seconds, minutes, hours, days- but time has no meaning anymore when nothing changes and Clair never ages- Clair began to believe she would ever see anything beyond the dark, lonely toy box that child threw her into.

Clair is a doll.

A doll that child no longer needs.

She had been so sure- as sure as Clair vaux Bernadus could be about anything, with her missing mind and her head without thoughts- that she would never escape. And she never hoped to achieve such an impossibility, either; after all, Clair could not hope.

It was an alien concept.

Almost as alien as the wind that now brushes her face and plays through her skirts, fanning out her hair and making those beautiful pearls clink a strange melody.

Today is a strange day, Clair concludes- but she gives it no more thought than that.

This is unexpected.

However, Clair has never had any expectations- so maybe she shouldn't be too surprised. And she's not; not really. She lacks the emotion.

She lacks the ability to care.

Slowly, Clair opens her eyes. She hardly realises they've been closed; but, after many seconds minutes hoursdaysanage (it blends into one, like paint in the rain, chalk on the sidewalk) in her world of dust and cobwebs and piercing blackness Clair saw no purpose in keeping her blue, blue (but they're washed out now; the real Beatrice took any shreds of characters she might once have had) eyes open.

Clair knew she would never see anything new. So why bother exerting her eyelids for such a fruitless task?

Then again...

Clair has never thought a truly original thought before.

Clair has never felt any emotion that was truly hers before.

So why do her brain and heart continue to function?

Clair's existence is a mystery- but she is no detective, and it's not her place to solve it. Even though she has more answers as to the origins of her birth than most, she's never dreamt of putting them together- of forming a bigger picture.

Why should she?

She has no desire to. It seems pointless; almost as pointless as dreaming for something impossible that will never come true (_he'll come back to me, I know he will)._

Clair doesn't have dreams. It seems laughable, submitting oneself to the mercy of ones mind, with no control; almost suicidal.

Clair never sleeps, anyway; she never has the chance.

But, if she had...

Maybe her dreams (fantasies belonging to the witch-turned-princess dressed in white locked up in her dark, dusty corner of the universe) would be a little something like the meadow she was laid out in.

The sky is periwinkle blue, so bright it looks like it had been sketched with scrawling lines by a child in wax crayon. The sun is a round, perfect disc set dead-centre in the sky, stark white, casting half-formed rainbows into the cloudless blue.

The soil underneath Clair's fingers is warm and moist, filled with life. The grass is green; an impossibly bright splash of color that belongs to no scene in a human garden. It is just like the sky- too lovely and perfect to exist in any place other than a dream, or delusion.

Or... maybe in a fairy story...

Shannon knew about fairy stories, didn't she? She loved them so much she wanted to be in one herself; the princess demoted to a lowly servant, who sat on her island surrounded by tangled forests and gnarled trees, fearsome demons and white witches, waiting for her prince to ride in on his noble steed and take her hand, kiss her lips, and give everything a happy ending...

Of course, Clair knows how that ended.

But, simply by Clair's fragile existence being acknowledged in such an idyllic meadow scene, maybe Clair herself can believe... fairytales... might not be completely impossible...

Everything seems possible in this beautiful world; a world filled with blue skies and green grass. The tress tower about Clair like guards standing sentinel, and the flowerbeds are so filled with roses the sweet-smelling plants spilt over their borders as they turned towards the sun.

The grass is wet with dew under Clair's icy fingertips.

The light is warm across her sun-starved skin.

The wind cups her cheeks and teases her clothes more softly, more gently, than any lover could have done in Shannon's half-formed imaginings; her small dreams nurtured as she folded towels and made beds.

For one brief, fleeting moment, Clair feels a strange stirring of... _something_... bubble up in that hollow space of her aching, empty ribcage.

She can't place a name to the emotion.

But, even so, it makes her feel... warm.

Even warmer than the sunshine did.

Clair's eyelids flutter, doll-like, in a haze of half-confusion and a rush of intermingled pain and loss. She places her fingertips (still damp with dew) at that spot on her chest, over her heart, trying to trap some remnants of that warmth in place...

But, ultimately, it's useless.

Clair blinks, and she frowns, but she can't recapture that feeling- which already seems so distant she could believe she imagined it (if Clair had the ability to imagine anything, which she doubts).

The feeling is short lived; there one moment, gone the next.

Just like that boy and his promises he could never keep.

When the feeling leaves, Clair feels emptier than ever.

Hollowed out.

A dead body in a pretty dress.

At that moment, Clair realises- although, at the back of her mind, she always knew- that she does not belong in this beautiful world of red roses and blue skies. This scene is something from a stained glass window; an illustration in a children's book; a dream from the mind of a young maid who loved, if not well and wisely, then far too much for her own good.

This world does not belong to Clair.

In her own universe Clair is striking; her white dress, white hair and white skin contrast so sharply against her backdrop of nothingness it makes Clair shine like a star.

In her universe, Clair is the most important thing. After all, her world is just a toy box, or a shelf in the house of a doll collector; a place where that child can put her unwanted toys.

The unwanted bits of _her_.

That place was fashioned just for Clair.

This place, however, does not belong to Clair. This world is... not fitting for an illusion (a will-o-the-wisp) like her. The colors are so bright here, and the smells so sweet, and the roses so beautiful, that Clair looks drab and dull- barely there- in comparison.

She's washed out.

Ruined.

Already fading away.

This world is not a fantasy scene- and neither will Clair stumble across her prince in shining armour, sword sheathed at side as he faces down the legions of hell to win her hand.

This world will be Clair's demise.

Well... it's a good a place as any...

Already, she can feel herself- the very thing that makes Clair 'Clair' (though Clair's sure that's so flimsy it was already half-broken to begin with. Maybe even more than half)- being washed away. Like sandcastles on the beach, tremulous as the tide came in, Clair feels her body tense in anticipation.

She is going to die here, in this field of blood red roses; so beautiful, so twisted.

So deadly.

Just like the 'love' that turned a young girl into a potential murderer.

Clair's arms, skin papery, show blue veins too clearly.

Clair's eyes, too wide, sting and water- pierced by unyielding lances of glowing light.

Clair's body, too fragile- too delicate- too non-existent to truly exist anymore, in a world of such substance- is slowly weakening.

Clair's 'heart'- that useless, hateful organ, that keeps the dust pumping and her life going even though the curtain should have long since fallen on her tragic tale- is beginning to cease it's repetitive beating. Usually that reassuring, steady beat (the knowledge she's still alive, because sometimes Clair forgets) is regular, like clockwork.

Now, it's frantic.

Erratic.

Clair lets her eyelids fall shut, coal black lashes brushing against pale skin.

There's no point in keeping them open; of delaying the inevitable.

Inevitable...

Has this end- alone and broken, her weak nature fully exposed by a world too wonderful for her remain in- always been planned? Has it been mapped out in the stars, even before that child wished for her?

Even before that child threw her away?

Had this always been the predicted end for Clair vaux Bernadus?

Clair's breathing begins to even out. Her chest no longer rises or falls. Her lips purse, as though inviting a kiss from a prince who will never come (he never came for Shannon, the lowly servant girl. Why should he come for Clair, a near-nameless, purposeless piece, drifting endlessly?)

For what must be the first time in a very, _very _long time, Clair remembers a snippet of memory from her past life as that child's fondest dream.

As Beatrice.

Or, to be more precise...

This is the first time Clair has ever reflected on her past life and truly felt something- a vague, undefined something, yes, but still a 'something'- stirring in her chest, underneath the layer of expensive material and thin flesh and brittle birds' bones.

Clair used to love reading mystery stories. She remembers that.

She remembers it clearly.

It always... used to be so much fun, reaching the end of a good mystery story.

The endings are always the most dramatic parts, aren't they? The reason any mystery fan perseveres until the end? 'The big reveal'.

Even if Clair's deductions had been wrong, she had still- once upon a time, such a long time ago- found delight in realising they had been wrong, because it was (_had _been)... funbeing defeated in a battle of wills and wits between author and reader.

The old Clair- when she had been Beatrice- had relished every part of that battle; or maybe it had been that child who relished the battle, imparting that ever-present thirst for complex murders and satisfying ends into her living cage of flesh and illusion for her secrets and hopes and dreams.

If Clair had been reading her own life as a mystery novel, events sliced into pages and bound in paper- '_the Strange Case of Clair vaux Bernadus_'- back when she still had the authority to call herself Beatrice and she still had importance to have a personality, she would have near-cried in anger and betrayal at the end of her own tale.

It's so... unsatisfying...

So the girl died and nothing was solved.

The end.

...It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

Does she really want to die like that- extinguished as easily as a flame on a candle?

Does she have a choice?

That is... almost funny... even though it's really a tragedy.

It must be cathartic, then; and Clair doesn't know where she's picked that word up from, but random syllable sounds are floating through her mind in a thick torrent now, like falling rain, until the inside of her head begins to hum and throb and, for a few moments, Clair remembers what it's like to feel pain.

Clair doesn't have a choice.

She's never had a choice.

And what she wants doesn't factor into it.

Clair doesn't want to die...

But...

That's ridiculous.

Clair has never 'wanted' anything before it, and it seems like an unfortunate time to start wanting now- almost selfish, because she's a doll, and she has no right to feel. Not without that child's permission. So Clair stifles this- shuts it up in a box and pushes it to one corner of her mind (and it's okay, it's all okay, because Clair's head is nice and hollow and there's a lot of space to put secrets she doesn't want to dwell upon) and she doesn't open her eyes.

She is beyond saving- Clair knows this.

But...

Clair can feel something strange; even more bizarre than the wind and the sun and the damp, warm soil.

There are fingertips on her arm. There is pressure on her skin- and her arm is so skinny, so unresisting, that it feels as though this intrusive stranger will surely push their fingernails straight through her flesh, out the other side; tearing a hole through skin and bone and blood.

A voice is calling to her.

Clair knows this voice- perhaps even better than she knows her own (because Clair can't remember when she last spoke, and she doubts she knows how).

"D-don't be condemn yourself so quickly to death, damn it! I didn't bring you here to watch you die!"

_Oh... _Clair thinks, the dusty, untapped gears in her mind slowly beginning to turn. They're thick with rust, and they screech quite horribly- how long has it been since she last had an original thought?- but they still work, and Clair is still thinking.

And Clair thinks she knows who it is.

_It's that boy._

_He came back._

_He came back... for... me... ... ...?_

...And then everything goes white.

* * *

**a/n: **This writing style is so different from my usual one I don't even XD Writing in present tense in a pain; I keep lapsing into past, and then I have to go back and edit a lot XD But if I don't diversify I will never improve?  
I hope my writing is ethereal and strange and 'wispy' (XD) enough to compliment Clair's confusing, barely-there persona ^_^ This fic might be just a tad longer than I originally thought, too, but not by much XD

Listening to Hannah Fury songs when writing this is incredibly helpful, btw XD

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	3. Alright

**There Are Only Ashes Here  
**Chapter Three

'Alright'

* * *

"A-are you alright...?"

Clair can tell by this person's tone of voice- they sound so worried, so scared, so... so _caring _it seems almost ridiculous, because who would care about a lifeless doll?- that she_ isn't_ alright. At least, the speaker obviously doesn't think she is; otherwise, why would they ask?

But Clair doesn't feel any different from usual. She is exactly the same, and she always will be. A constant. Never-changing.

She doesn't know how to respond.

So Clair says nothing.

Clair's eyes flicker open. She can't remember closing her eyes, but once there was darkness and now- all of sudden- she sees blue sky and blue, blue eyes.

She supposes this movement- slight though it is- is proof enough of her continued existance.

She is still 'alive'- although that depends on your definition of 'alive'- and she is still breathing.

Her heart is still beating.

Her eyes are opening- flickering- sliding shut (it's far too bright) only to snap back open once more. Her movements are slow and labored; merely opening her eyes requires far too much energy, requires far too much effort. The lids open awkwardly, snapping back like an old, unused doll's.

It's certainly not natural.

But Clair is still alive.

And so Clair supposes, she must- logically- be 'alright'.

That is, if 'alright' means 'alive'.

If 'alright' has a broader meaning, then Clair doesn't know what to think.

Words are strange, Clair decides. They have too many meanings. Far too many contradictions. What is 'alright' by one person's standards may not be 'alright' to anther's.

_"A-are you alright...?"_

Even if Clair could speak, how could she answer that question?

But this man- or is he a child? It's so very difficult to tell, and Clair hasn't seen another human being in so very long- breathes a sigh of relief as Clair begins to stir, so Clair assumes she _must _be 'alright', then.

He wouldn't look so relieved otherwise.

And... that's good.

Clair doesn't want to upset him- though she's not sure why. She's never wanted anything for herself before; why should she begin wanting things for other people? Can a doll like her even understand the incredibly human feeling of 'wanting'? The lives of humans are filled with wanting- their hopes, dreams and aspirations in life and love all based around being selfish and never being satisfied.

But Clair cannot be maddened by lust.

She cannot be maddened by gold.

And, to that end, she is not human.

Clair is never satisfied, but she is never unsatisfied either- she simply exists, and that is it.

It's incredibly simple, really.

But... Slowly, piece by piece, emotions (no, more like memories of emotions- old and faded like sepia photographs) begin to return to the corners of Clair's empty, cobweb filled head. Her glassy eyes stir with unfamiliar feelings (but they were familiar once, weren't they, when she was still Beatrice and that child still needed her? But... No longer. No more).

Clair remembers a time when she could think and feel.

She remembers when she used to drink tea with that child and her demon friends- when she used to cackle in the nights of Rokkenjima as a ghostly fairytale- when she shared that child's happiness- and when she shared her pain.

Pain.

Clair knew pain.

As she looks up into those blue eyes (Battler's eyes- she knows for sure it's Ushiromiya Battler who's talking to her, holding her), filled with worry and concern, Clair realizes- though her face remains impassive, her body remains still- that she _still _knows pain.

Or, at least, she remembers how it used to feel.

And she welcomes it as an old friend.

It's been a long, long while since Clair felt anything, and the sudden shock of it hurts even more than the stabbing pain deep in her breast; a clawing, scratching, bleeding, oozing feeling of wanting, wanting, wanting so desperately to make this person happy- even though he left her (he left Shannon), and he's the reason Clair was thrown aside, stuck in a stasis for so long- engulfing her very being, until it feels like this was the reason she was created.

To love this person.

To forgive him.

Clair feels the blossoming emotion- of biting claws and slicing fangs tearing at that empty space in her ribcage- bury deep inside her, being made manifest; crawling through her flesh and working its magic upon her mind, her heart, like maggots eating through flesh to bone.

Soul poison.

For whatever 'soul' Clair owns.

Clair doesn't want Battler to be sad.

And yet... even as she thinks this...

The feeling of pain and grief and wanting (such wanting), which was once so raw and intense, begins to ebb away, like the tide operating under the lunar cycle. The sea is receding, the moon is waning, and Clair's world begins to right itself once more.

Battler is holding her- holding her icy body and pale flesh- but it is not her he is looking at.

He asked her if she was alright, but it was not her he was speaking to.

He was talking to that other woman, wasn't he?

Beatrice.

He was talking to Beatrice.

He was trying to find a few shards of that blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cruelly smirking woman within the empty recesses of Clair's hollowed-out corpse- because Clair's not living, not really. A girl who cannot think and feel is nothing but a ghost; a memory; made of less substance, even, than the air.

Clair remembers.

She nearly died.

This bright, cheerful world- a world she does not belong in, she being made up of old fairytales to keep children out of the woods and the delusions of a lonely maid who only wanted a friend - nearly killed her.

But Clair is not dead.

Clair is not alive, but she is not dead, and she is empty, but her flesh still contains blood and bone, and she knows- she knows this for a fact- that she is very much the same as she always was.

And she also knows it was Battler who saved her.

No...

He thought he was saving Beatrice.

A piece of Beatrice.

But Clair is not the Beatrice Battler wants- just like Clair was not the Beatrice that child wanted- and Clair knows she will only upset him when he realizes she isn't Beatrice. That is inevitable.

...Somehow, that thought hurts her more than it should. But the feeling only lasts a few seconds, and it disappears as quickly as it came- so Clair supposes it doesn't really matter.

Nothing much does.

"Who are you?" Battler asks her.

Clair notes the hope present in his voice. He's hoping and praying and wishing so much Clair can almost taste it in the air, and it only serves to remind her just how very full of emotion normal people are, and just how very empty she is.

Who is she?

Somebody... who shouldn't exist.

Somebody who doesn't even have a name; not anymore. When that child denied her existence, created the Golden Witch who'd lived for a thousand years in her place, Clair lost the right to call herself Beatrice. She lost her name. So Clair picked a new name for herself from the sea of infinity and possibilities- and maybe this action was out of line for a useless doll, and maybe an old imaginary friend doesn't need a name (insomuch as an imaginary friend doesn't need a real body or real presence, just so long as the pretender keeps believing- because it takes two to create a universe, but Clair's universe has been made and sustained by one for so long), but the knowledge she has a name is maybe how Clair has kept herself alive for so very long, despite her fragile existence, threatening to shatter.

But Clair's name is not her real name.

And Clair is not the real Beatrice.

So Clair cannot respond- but she feels she has to (she must), because she can't upset this person.

But she can't even remember why she cares.

She can't... even remember... _how_ to care.

"Hey," says Battler softly, pulling Clair just a little closer to his body- and he's so warm and she's so very cold, and Clair shudders slightly at his touch, his fingertips leaving trails of fire down her arms where they lightly press. "You... You're not..." And then he laughs, shakes his head- but it's sad, self-deprecating, not funny in the slightest. "Of course you're not."

His unsaid words hang in the air, as real as the scent of the roses.

_You're not Beatrice._

"That's true. I'm not," Clair acknowledges- and then she pauses.

She is surprised she can still speak at all; although it is not real surprise, not really. It's more like... Clair remembers, once upon a time, how she felt when she was surprised in the past (when that child was still pumping emotion into her dead heart)- and Clair takes hold of this memory and warps it into real emotion, and plants it into heart as though she's sewing seeds.

Maybe, if she remembers enough, she can learn how to replicate these feelings properly.

Maybe the seeds will grow into saplings.

Then Clair won't be a parasite, feeding on her past remembrances and memories of when that child needed her, just to give herself form and thought.

"H-ha... Haha... Ihihi..." Battler begins to laugh softly as he pulls her closer. He holds her as a parent would hold a child, and it's soft and gentle and Clair knows this isn't how he treated _that_ woman, that this isn't how he treated _Beatrice_. But Clair isn't Beatrice, and Battler knows this- and he acts accordingly.

Acts gentle.

"What's wrong?" Clair asks.

Why is he laughing? What's so funny?

She doesn't understand.

"It's just..." Battler smiles, shakes his head. "You can actually speak. You really can! I was beginning to think you were mute."

She has been for a long time. Clair herself wondered the same thing as she drifted in her own little piece of the world, broken away from the rest of the galaxy- removed from life and matter and meaning and reason, where existing meant to live on and on and on without a beginning or end, with nothing to do but simply _be._

Clair had forgotten what her voice sounded like.

Right now, as she speaks to Battler, it's soft... quiet...

It sounds like somebody struggling for breath.

Somebody on their death bed.

Clair is sure she didn't always sound like this. When she was the proud witch of Rokkenjima's night, opening windows to let in the cold and cackling through corridors- though that was so very long ago - Clair didn't sound so weak.

So pathetic.

Clair used to be strong and proud and haughty and beautiful and everything else that child always wanted to be.

Now Beatrice embodies that, and Clair embodies nothing.

Nothing but... nothingness.

Clair's current voice is not her old one- but Clair supposes Beatrice took that, too, just as she took her blue, blue eyes and her cruel laugh and her place in that child's heart.

"A-ah, don't worry about it," says Battler, his laughter subsiding.

Clair looks at him quizzically. She wasn't aware she was worrying about anything.

But Battler grins in response, and prods her on the nose.

"You were looking a little lost there," Battler explains. "Confused. I know that feeling well, ihihi- that's sort of what happens when you hang around witches too much. They should come with a health warning, you know? It's a wonder I'm still in one piece."

And Clair... can relate to that.

Somewhat.

It is a wonder, after that child grew tired of her, that she is one piece, too. Her existence should be shattered- destroyed- dashed to shards like a broken plate (that child used to drop plates all the time, she was such a clumsy maid- so terribly, terribly clumsy, and the others would scold her and she would pretend not to care but she'd always cry afterwards when she thought nobody was there to see).

"...I understand your sentiments," says Clair, after a brief silence.

And Battler grins.

"Ihihi~ Witches are a pain, right? Always pushing you around like a piece on a game board- and their reasoning behind it?"

Battler says "I was bored" at the same time Clair says, voice monotone, "I was lonely."

And Battler blinks, his grin fading somewhat- though it doesn't disappear. Conflicting emotion spreads across his face- confusion, intrigue, amusement, and maybe a little bit of pain, and it reminds Clair once more of how very full of feelings he is, and how very empty she is. It makes her head hurt just imagining it; how can humans fit so much_ feeling _inside of them, what with all that blood and bone and muscle and all those organs- so many organs, so warm and soft and vulnerable and maybe the existence of humans isn't all that much more stable than Clair's barely-there, ghostly presence after all- jammed up inside, underneath their skin? How do they have the room for anger, pain, sadness, fear, joy and love, love, so much love, in there alongside all that meat and gristle and gore?

It's a mystery to Clair.

"You were lonely...?" Battler asks, tilting his head to one side.

Clair looks down at her skirts, fanning out before her like sea foam; frothy lace, smooth silk, the perfect attire for a witch.

But Clair isn't a witch anymore.

"I wasn't lonely," says Clair, speaking to her skirts. "I have never been lonely. But... that child has. And, to that end... most witches are. I think. I suppose."

"Ha." Battler gives a small, humorless laugh- and Clair wonders why he bothers. What's the point of laughing when you're not happy? Humans are complicated- their emotional workings far more intricate and unknown than the workings of their body; the digestive system, lungs, heart, liver... All of that is far easier for Clair to comprehend. Biology. Easy.

"I've spent ages with those damned witches, and I thought I knew a bunch about them- but you sound like you know more than me," says Battler.

"Not really. It's just a matter of perspective," says Clair, still emotionless.

Battler was the victim. The one abused by Beatrice.

But Clair used to be a witch herself, once upon a time. Clair is a victim too- insomuch as she is the victim of a sad, lonely child who grew out of make-believe and truly fell in love- but Clair doesn't care enough for her own suffering to class herself as a 'victim' really. Instead, Clair sees things for how they really are.

That child was lonely.

That child passed her feelings- they were too strong, too heavy, and they crushed her like a weight- to Beatrice.

So Beatrice was lonely, too.

But Clair was never lonely- or, if she was, she can't remember how it felt, so it doesn't matter.

Maybe all witches are lonely.

It must be sad living for a thousand years with nobody to talk to.

"Who... are you?" Battler asks her, his voice hesitant.

It's the same question he asked before, just phrased differently- and Clair couldn't respond back then, and she can't now.

But she still tries.

She tries because it's been so very long since somebody spoke to her, since somebody _wanted_ her, and even if Battler doesn't really desire her company his interest in Clair is still allowing her to exist in this world that should have killed her already. She feels herself becoming a little more solid, a little more real, as Battler holds onto her even tighter and looks at her with intensity- because a world can only be created with two people, and Clair's universe was fed by one for such a long time she couldn't possibly exist in a world with more substance than her own little, barely-there corner of the universe.

But Battler believes in her.

Battler is the second person in Clair's universe- the second one supporting her flimsy existence.

And she feels indebted to him.

She feels she must answer- even if the answer is unsatisfactory.

"I am Clair vaux Bernardus."

She gives a name that holds no meaning- because it's not her real name, she doesn't have a real name- but Battler smiles, all the same.

"It's a pretty name. It suits you."

"It wasn't always my name, though."

"Oh?" Battler raises a brow, interest flickering across his face.

"A while ago..." Clair pauses. She wonders how long, exactly, a 'while ago' was- but she can't fix it an exact date, and eventually she decides it doesn't matter. "A while ago, those who knew of me called me the witch of Rokkenjima's night."

Battler looks at Clair- really looks at her.

"Ha..." he gives another humorless laugh- another pointless sound, more wasted syllables, and Clair's not quite sure what it means. "So... you were a 'Beatrice' as well?"

Clair nods.

"Wow..." Battler's surprise is only momentary; he was always expecting this, and he gives an easy laugh to show his shock has dissipated. "There are so many Beatos in this tale it's getting a little difficult to keep track of them all. Let's see... We've got Beato-Beato, and Kuwadorian Beato, and Virgilia... And Eva-Beatrice... And now you." He smiles. "Clair vaux Bernardus."

He says her name as though it's special; as though it means something.

"If you wish you may call me Beatrice," says Clair.

It's a good a name as any, she supposes- and it's been so long since somebody called her that.

But Battler shakes his head.

"No. I think 'Clair' suits you far more," he says. "It's more... refined."

"Refined?"

"Yep," he says confidently. "Anybody can be a Beato, but it takes a really refined woman to pull off a 'Clair'. And I can't see you screaming or cackling like Beato, anyway. It'd be disrespectful to a woman as pretty as you to give you such an unfitting name!"

And Clair supposes there is some sense in that.

That child may once have called her 'Beatrice', but Clair was never the 'Beatrice' that child really wanted- and she has no right to be tilted as such. Maybe she never had that right.

She is not Beatrice.

She is... ...

Clair.

He... called her pretty.

Is she pretty?

"Oh, ahaha, i-ignore that," says Battler, looking a little embarrassed. "I... have a tendency to say stupid things sometimes. I mean, like, _really_ stupid. I don't always mean it..." Then his eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head, as though trying to backpedal on that previous statement. "N-not that you're not pretty, cause you are, Clair- really- but... but... Aheheh..."

"It's alright." Clair's voice is a soft monotone, cutting through Battler's babble like a knife. "I understand."

And she does understand.

She understands better than most.

_"I'll come back to you on a white horse,"_ he said.

And so the princess waited and waited and waited on her enchanted island of witches and demons and wolves in the forest for her prince to return.

But he never did.

_"I have a tendency to say stupid things sometimes."_

That is something of an understatement.

Clair wonders what Shannon would say about that.

But... maybe... Battler knows.

In fact, there's no 'maybe' about it.

Why else would he look so shame-faced; so unnaturally embarrassed? Why else would he be so keen to take those words- harmless words, that couldn't possible affect Clair- back?

Clair knows why.

_Ushiromiya Battler has sinned._

_Ushiromiya Battler made Shannon- no, not Shannon. Yasuda Sayo..._

_Not even her._

_Ushiromiya Battler made that child cry._

"I didn't mean to hurt her," Battler says- and he mutters it under his breath, but Clair can still hear him. "I... really didn't..." He winces. "Stupid... S-so stupid... It was such a small thing, I didn't... N-no, that's the problem. I _never _think."

But he's realized it too late, hasn't he?

Shannon is trapped in that endless cycle of death- that cruel witch's game- on the island.

Beatrice is already gone.

But Clair... is still there.

Clair- the remnants of Beatrice (the old Beatrice)- is still here, and she can still hear him confess; and maybe this is enough.

Perhaps Battler's expecting Clair to be angry.

To admonish- to punish- to chastise him.

To absolve him.

But Clair can't, because Clair cannot feel anger.

She can't feel forgiveness.

And, moreover...

"The heart you broke never belonged to me."

Clair speaks the truth without red text, but Battler knows it to be a fact because he winces- and Clair perhaps feels a little guilty for saying such a cruel thing so heartlessly, but she's not very good with words and emotions are too complicated for her.

"Y-you're still her though, aren't you?" Battler asks her. "You're still her? That's why you appeared when I called you, right?"

Clair isn't sure how to respond.

Which 'her' is Battler referring to?

Is he talking about Yasuda Sayo, the girl whose heart he broke?

Is he talking about Beatrice the Golden Witch, the woman whose heart he couldn't understand?

Is he talking about that child, the clumsy, useless, downtrodden servant whose heart he tore in two?

Or could he even be talking about Clair vaux Bernardus, the imaginary friend he destroyed?

Who is this apology meant for?

One of them?

All of them?

But Clair is the only one who can accept it.

And Clair doesn't know how to.

"A-ah, I'm sorry," says Battler, trying to regain his composure- but his eyes are melancholy, and his smile has long since vanished. "I-I shouldn't... be burdening you like this."

"I don't mind."

"Haha. If you were Beato, you'd..." But Battler bites his lip and doesn't finish that thought. Beatrice isn't there anymore; what she would have done is irrelevant- and Clair is unable to take her place. "N-never mind. You're a good listener, Clair."

Battler forces a smile- but it's not a real smile. It's awkward and out of place and just a little bit heart-breaking.

"I'm sorry for being so rude," Battler continues. "I invited you here, and I haven't shown you any hospitality. I was going to offer you some tea, but it slipped my mind, I guess. Ihihi... I-I'm pretty awful at manners and responsibility and stuff- Aunt Natsuhi always said that when she was in a bad mood which was, like, all the time. She said I was leading Jessica astray. Ha." His derisive laugh is more believable this time, as he smirks. "Lead Jessica astray? Yeah, _right_; it was totally her who dared me to climb that tree this one time, and it was HER who laughed like a hyena when I fell off and broke my leg. Jessica's the REAL witch that haunts Rokkenjima; I mean, seriously. She's_ way_ scarier than Beato."

Clair listens to Battler talk with that same expression fixed on her face, unchanging, as though it's carved from marble. She realizes Battler needs to talk- needs to babble about unimportant things, trivial things, happy memories- to calm himself down, and Clair finds listening to his voice almost... pleasant.

She hasn't spoken to anybody for such a long time.

And she knows this will be the last time.

She won't get another chance.

"Ha, look at me going on and on," says Battler sheepishly, noting Clair's frozen expression. "You must be bored stiff."

"I like listening to you talk."

"You flatter me." He laughs. "You're too nice, Clair."

That's not true. Clair just lacks the motivation to do anything _other_ than listen. Her actions are not governed by goodness of the heart- for Clair doubts she even has one.

"Do you want some tea?" Battler offers.

Clair readies herself to decline- she hasn't drunk or eaten anything for a long time, and she can't see why she should begin now- but something makes her pause.

A memory.

It's a hazy memory, barely there- even less tangible than Clair's meager existence. It's a weak memory; made up of more 'nothing' than 'something', and it's certainly _not _certain.

But Clair remembers it all the same.

Clair used to sit at a white table under an arbor surrounded by roses, tasting tea. That curly-haired demon with the red dress had been with her (Clair can't remember her name), and they had discussed oh so many things...

But the taste of the tea is what really makes this memory; gives it backbone, gives it enough strength to truly exist, instead of disintegrating into dust.

Clair used to love tea.

Clair... would very much like to drink tea again.

Especially with Ushiromiya Battler.

* * *

**a/n: **Battler/Clair is all kinds of adorable, guyz.

Explanation for Battler's appearance will be given next chapter (even though you might be able to figure out what exactly he's doing w/ Clair already XD)

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	4. Remember

**There Are Only Ashes Here  
**Chapter Four

'Remember'

* * *

Clair tries to get to her feet, but her movements are slow, laboured, and her legs don't want to support her. So she shakes and stumbles, clumsy as a newborn deer or startled foal- and, at the back of her mind, she remembers she wasn't always like this.

She used to be so strong.

So graceful.

She would glide through the woods of Rokkenjima with a ghostly grace, like a will-o-the-wisp; barely there, more smoke and air than flesh and blood. She covered the uneven earth and twisted roots and fallen twigs with ease where others would have stumbled and tripped, her white skirts billowing behind her, the pearls in her hair shimmering under the milky moonlight.

Clair had covered the land like a fog- a mist- a miasma.

Now, she can hardly stand.

The deadweight of her body feels cold and lifeless. Her mind is still alive and her heart is still beating, but her arms and legs are unresponsive, and they don't move when she tells them to. Instead, they hang heavily, pulling her down- pulling her down into the earth, where she belongs, in her white dress that looks so much like a funeral shroud.

It feels like her mind and heart have been cut out and stuffed into the body of a corpse.

She is a corpse.

A doll.

Hollowed-out and empty- filled with blood and organs, but not much else (and a human can't run on biological processes alone. Clair knows this because she saw that child consumed with grief, waiting for her prince to return- and even though that child's heart still pumped blood and her lungs took in air she had been empty, lonely, and half-dead with misery).

Clair might be 'alive', but perhaps she isn't 'alright' after all.

Battler's belief in her is enough to sustain her barely-there existence. Battler's belief is enough to feed into the dream; it makes the illusion of Clair vaux Bernardus, a girl who doesn't really exist, grow stronger and stronger.

Battler can keep Clair's heart pumping blood.

But Clair still doesn't feel alive.

Battler can keep her mind alive.

But he can't do the same for her body.

Clair's body- the cage of flesh that keeps her form, keeps her alive- is beginning to disintegrate, bit by bit, but the process is so slow it doesn't hurt, and Clair knows she can't fight against it.

So she accepts it.

She can't stand up.

She can't move.

It hurts to try.

And when Clair realises this she falls gracelessly, clumsily, and she thinks, this must be what that child felt like. That child was always stumbling, always tripping, always dropping plates and misplacing keys and the older maids would all berate her, and she pretend she didn't care but she did.

They made her cry.

But Clair doesn't cry; not even when she twists her ankle. Pain spreads through her leg- but the pain is dull, dampened, and it doesn't really hurt.

Clair doesn't really care.

But Battler does.

Clair looks up at him from her lowly position on the floor, her leg bent awkwardly and her hair fanning out underneath her.

Battler stares back. His eyes are wide with worry, and he's biting his lower lip, confused, and wondering what to do.

Even if he offered Clair his hand it wouldn't help.

Clair wouldn't be able to take it anyway.

Why... does he look so sad?

He probably thinks she's pathetic.

A sad, worn-out, once-was witch whose leg is bent back but she can't feel pain, whose heart is still alive but its cold to the touch.

Whose existence is so old and worn she can't even stand upright by herself anymore.

Clair knows Beatrice was never like this.

Beatrice was proud.

Beatrice was dignified.

Beatrice was strong.

Once upon a time, when Clair was called Beatrice, she was like that, too.

But now she is weak.

She really has... fallen very far...

"Clair...?"

"I can't move," Clair replies; but her voice is empty, detached, as though she's talking about a being separate from herself.

Maybe her body _is _separate from herself. It's certainly not listening to her anymore.

"H-here," says Battler, his voice shaking. "I'll help you."

Battler would never help Beatrice.

But Beatrice would never accept his help anyway- and Clair is not Beatrice.

Clair is not the woman Battler wants to talk to. But Clair is all that's left of Beatrice- Clair is the chick in an egg, the predecessor of that blonde-haired, blue eyed, cackling witch- and she's the only part of Beatrice left Battler can reach.

She's all that he has.

And now, her existence supported by Battler's belief- and he's the one who wanted to deny witches but he's been keeping her alive all this time, isn't that funny? Ironic? Clair would laugh, but that would take too much energy- Battler is all Clair has.

So they have to stay together.

It takes two people to create a world.

And even if one of those 'people' is an illusion, a fantasy, an imaginary friend, maybe it's better than nothing.

Or maybe Clair is less than nothing.

"You don't have to help me," says Clair.

But Battler's voice is filled with resolve when he replies, face set with determination, "Yes I do."

He picks Clair up easily, as though she weighs no more than a baby bird. He pulls Clair's fragile body close to his chest, one arm round her back, the other under her legs- and Clair finds herself curled up against him, her arms round his shoulders, though she can't remember moving them, and she was sure she'd forgotten how.

He carries her like she's a princess from a fairytale and he's the brave knight in shining armour.

He came back for her.

It took him six years to return.

It took him far too long- but not compared to other fairytales, not really. Isn't it unfair to say he was too late, when it took the prince one hundred years to rescue Sleeping Beauty?

But Battler still came back.

He still kept his promise.

He remembered.

But he remembered too late.

Clair never wanted this.

Clair never dreamed about this.

Clair's thoughts were never tortured with images of this- of Ushiromiya Battler holding her, rescuing her, returning for her. _Loving _her- because Clair was made before that child fell in love, and she was discarded when that love grew too intense for Clair's cold, emotionless body to contain.

Clair has never been in love.

Clair doesn't understand the concept. Being hurt, getting hurt- bleeding from the heart and crying into your pillow, crying yourself to sleep...

It sounds painful.

It sounds...

Scary.

How could you devote yourself to another person so entirely?

When the person you loved left you- they would always, always leave you- they'd take away half of your soul as well.

And they'd leave you incomplete.

That is how love works.

That is what Clair knows of 'love'.

And it's impossible for her to feel.

Clair is already incomplete, and if she gave a piece of herself to another person- no matter how small that piece may be- she'd die. Disappear. Clair needs to hold onto her fading existence with both hands, and she can't afford to give any of it away.

She can't afford to fall in love.

And yet, despite this, Clair still rests her head against Battler's chest.

She listens to his heartbeat through the material of his shirt.

And it's soothing.

It's proof this isn't a dream.

Battler is there.

He's real.

He came back.

He came back to apologise to Shannon- apologise to Beatrice- but her found Clair instead. And, even though Clair wasn't the girl he was looking for, he still rescued her, because Battler was a helpless romantic ("_I'll come back for you on a white horse_") even though he pretended he wasn't, and he couldn't leave the fair maiden dressed in white locked up in her tower all by herself.

Even though he saved the wrong girl, he still tried to keep his promise.

He really did try.

He's still trying now.

And maybe these gestures are intended for somebody else, and maybe they don't mean anything- maybe they can't change anything, are more 'nothing' than 'something' like Clair herself.

But it still makes that empty space in Clair's ribcage feel... warm.

For the first time, she doesn't feel completely hollow.

And that's... a good thing...

Isn't it?

* * *

"Damn, it was insane," says Battler, shaking his head. "It was really pathetic, actually. I'm sort of glad you're not Beato, Clair, or I'd never hear the end of it. If Beato found out, she'd laugh at me for a week- I mean, really. I dunno _what _I was thinking when I tried to summon Beato at all. I mean, I already knew she was..."

"Gone."

Clair says it simply, as she says most things- because Clair has always known the answer to this mystery, and it holds no interest for her.

Very little does.

But Battler is only just beginning to piece together the answer to Beatrice's game, and Battler knows he's at the epicentre of it all- the cause of all this chaos- and he flinches.

"Y-yeah..." he says, eyes downcast. "Beato's gone..."

Clair doesn't know what to say. Should she apologise? But an apology from Clair wouldn't mean anything. Clair doesn't understand the concept of 'suffering'. She doesn't understand the concept of 'love'.

'Love' and 'suffering', for Clair, hold opposite meanings to their usual connotations.

That child's suffering brought Clair into existence.

That child's love nearly killed her.

And Clair... doesn't know how to apologise.

Silence envelops the pair. Battler stares down at the contents of his teacup, eyes strangely empty- and yet, at the same time, filled with so many warring thoughts and feelings they seem to be overflowing. Clair's own teacup is held lightly in her lax grip; and Clair finds it surprising, really (though it is a dull kind of surprise), that she can hold onto it at all.

The tea doesn't taste as good as Clair thought it would. It burns the back of her throat when she sips it, and she's not sure she likes it.

Clair and Battler sit at a circular table under a white arbour, surrounded by rose gardens and green grass and blue skies- and this place is vaguely familiar to Clair. It feels as though she has sat in this chair before, holding this same teacup in the same way, her fall falling just so and her skirts sweeping the floor as they had done so many other assorted times in the past.

Clair recognises this place.

She used to sit here and take tea with that demon in the red dress.

But that was a long time ago.

Does the demon in the red dress even know who is she anymore?

"I-it doesn't matter… Beato's gone, but… I guess…" Battler sighs, shaking his head (he does that a lot; it's almost as if he's trying to physically rid himself of all his extra thoughts and feelings). "You're still here, aren't you Clair?"

That depends.

It depends on what you mean by 'here'.

But Clair supposes she is 'here'- wherever 'here' is- because she can feel the china teacup in her fingers and taste the tea on her tongue and smell the scent of the roses in the air. They are all signs she is still alive, and it's almost overwhelming because Clair hasn't experienced taste or touch or smell for so long.

Clair nods her head, the movement jerky.

She is 'here'.

Battler can see her and talk to her and she is 'here'.

But... her mind wanders.

Her body is crumbling.

She might be 'here' now, but she won't be for much longer.

"I was trying to defend Aunt Natsuhi," says Battler, still staring at his teacup. His brows are furrowed, as though the teacup has wronged him in some way. "I was trying to defend her again that... that..." His eyes narrow. "That _detective._ Furudo Erika."

Clair knows of this person, without knowing how she knows- just as she knows the names of the flowers that surround them, and the birds that chirp in the trees, and the type of tea they're drinking (it's smooth caramel, and it's black).

"She was too strong," says Battler, sighing. "With her seals. I couldn't really argue back... 'There might be some fault in the seals'? Really?" He rolls his eyes. "Damn. Damn it. I must have looked so _stupid_."

Clair doesn't try to console him, because she thinks he's probably telling the truth.

"And then... Dlanor smashed my argument to pieces..."

"And Dlanor destroyed you, too."

"Yeah." A strange smile tugs at Battler's lips. Half of it is upset, the other amused- and yet the entirety of that smile is completely perplexed and confused. Battler wears this expression well, as though it has crossed his face innumerable times before. "She did. I told Dlanor I was going to give her a good fight, but I guess that was all talk. When I tried to fight against her she rammed a red spear straight through my mouth and pinned me to the floor." Battler shudders. "It wasn't a pleasant experience."

"It sounds painful," Clair says, her voice devoid of sympathy.

"It was." Battler grins. "But I'm a man. I can suck it up."

"I don't think gender makes a marked difference when it comes to a human's pain receptors."

Battler recoils from Clair's comment slightly- though he does it theatrically, his smile easy-going and significantly less confused than before, as he places one hand against his chest.

"That's cruel, Clair. Are you doubting my survival skills?"

Clair nods her head slowly- once up, once down, stop. Clair doesn't waste her movements; she rations them carefully. Each and every inclination of her head, twitch of her fingers- even each and every time she blinks- saps energy from her. Her body begins to feel heavier and heavier.

"Ihihi~" Battler laughs- and then he reaches forwards, prodding Clair gently on the forehead. Admonishing her for her disbelief. "You might not be Beato, but you're still pretty cutting, in your own weird way. You say things normal people would find difficult to say with such ease; it's like you don't even care."

"Normal...?"

Clair surveys Battler with empty eyes, her fingers tightening around the handle of her teacup.

Does he want her to be 'normal'?

But Clair doesn't understand- it's another complicated concept, with so many possible meanings, and they all differ from person to person. What is 'normal' for Ushiromiya Battler might not be 'normal' for everybody else.

Then again, Battler has seen so many strange and improbable things; Death Sentence Dlanor dealing fatal blows to witches with her trusty ten wedges; his family member's stomachs all split open and filled with a cornucopia of candy and sugary treats; the heartless witch of miracles Bernkastel laughing with a truly ugly expression twisting her usually emotionless face. Battler' has seen all this, and his perception of 'normal' might be somewhat different to most people's.

"It's okay," said Battler, his voice comforting, smile sincere. "You don't have to be normal, Clair. Nobody else in the meta world is."

Clair looks at him.

Battler looks back at her, his blue eyes blazing, his expression so sincere Clair feels another spark of 'something'- such a contrast to the empty, deserted wasteland of 'nothing' that was there before- budding in her chest.

And then Clair nods again- once up, once down, once up again; and there is a wasted motion there, nodding only requires two movements of her head, but she forgets herself.

She forgets herself as she looks at Battler's eyes, and sees just how much he's hurting.

Just how much he's beginning for her forgiveness.

"...Alright," says Clair. Her voice is emotionless as always, and it makes he flinch, just slightly; it sounds dry and heartless when compared to Battler's words. "I'll… be myself." Whoever that is. "Thank you..."

"No problem." Battler grins. "You're by the far the most 'normal' person I've met so far, anyway."

And then he laughs, taking another sip of tea- before he winces, sitting it back down on the saucer with a _clink._

"This tea's pretty awful. I'm sorry it's not very good," says Battler, apologising. "I don't think I've got the hang of this 'magic' thing yet- and Beato always made it look so easy..."

"The tea tastes fine," says Clair.

It's a lie.

An obvious lie.

Why is she lying?

Does she think telling a little untruth about the real quality of Battler's tea will cheer him up? Clair might be naïve to the workings of the human heart, but she knows it will take more than that absolve Battler of the crushing, dizzying guilt she sees behind his painted smiles.

"Ihihi..." Battler laughs- but it sounds a little self-deprecating, and his smile doesn't light up his eyes. "This is so weird..."

"What's weird?"

"Being here," says Battler, gesturing towards his surroundings. "Being alive. Talking. Drinking tea with a- if I do say so myself- rather beautiful lady." He winks- but Clair doesn't respond, and that makes Battler's smile all the more sincere. His blue eyes are sparkling now, just like the ocean ("_I know that the ocean is blue_"), and Clair thinks he looks much nicer like this. "Ahaha, ignore me. That'd probably be for the best. I say all sorts of meaningless crap."

And some girls might just be swayed by that 'meaningless crap'- but Clair doesn't _have _a heart to sway, and Battler's words make no lasting impression on her.

Clair is not Shannon, after all.

"I don't mind. You should speak your thoughts," Clair says.

It's nice conversing with somebody else. Clair was alone for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like; but Clair feels wanted when she's with Battler, and that- in turn- makes her feel warm.

It's refreshing.

Just like Battler's tea, which really doesn't taste that good at all, but Clair still drinks it because he made it and- well, it would be rude not to.

"I thought for sure I was going to die back there, when Dlanor attacked me," Battler continues. "That... I'd lost." He pauses, looking about him with some confusion- as though he's unsure whether he's dreaming or not. "But I'm still here."

Clair can relate to this.

She should be dead, too.

"I think it's because... I didn't... stop thinking..." says Battler, his voice fragmented, filled with pauses, as he tries to pick out the right words to surmise his feelings. It's difficult- human words are so limiting. So binding.

Just like chains.

Like the chain around Beatrice's ankle.

"I didn't stop thinking, so I didn't die," Battler says. "You only 'die' on the game board if you stop thinking... And... I ended up here instead- but I'm sure my real body is still, I dunno, being used as a statue by those fucking sadists or something. I bet Bern and Lambda are having fun laughing about that… D-damnit…"

Battler looks at Clair.

His easy-going smile is gone.

Instead, Clair can see- quite clearly- the Ushiromiya Battler behind his façade.

And it's guilty.

Battler's face is… filled with guilt.

"And... I remembered." Battler speaks with certainty. He doesn't need the red truth to make the following statement, because he knows it to be so from the bottom of his heart. Clair can hear the conviction in his voice.

"I remembered the... the sin... I committed."

Battler looks tortured- and Clair knows, from the pain in his voice to the pain in his face, that there is pain is heart. He's been agonising over his 'sin' ever since he realised what it was; ever since he remembered what he'd done; and he wants to apologise.

He needs to apologise.

Or this pain will tear him apart.

Battler's guilt is festering in open wounds, making sensitive skin sore, and his conscience is bleeding. Clair can see the drops of crimson blood stain his white suit, stain the white tablecloth, dripping into his now-empty china teacup. It bubbles forth from metaphorical cracks and sores and scars on his body.

He is feeling the pain he once inflicted- unknowingly- on Shannon.

On Sayo.

On all of them.

Shannon's love bloomed like a flower- but its roots dug deep down into her heart, twisting and mutating and far, far too tangled to get out. She tried to dig those feelings from her own flesh with her fingernails, but it didn't work- they were lodged in too deeply, and whilst the flower of her love looked beautiful at first glance, the roots were withered and decayed and black like cinders.

It was a one-sided love, and it was raw and it was painful, and it nearly smothered her.

That love nearly killed Shannon.

That love _did _kill Clair.

And it looks like that love has finally returned to the one who sewed it.

The pain of that love… belongs to Ushiromiya Battler once more.

"I remember..." says Battler- and then his voice breaks, his fingers tremble, and Clair can hear the steady drip drip drip as metaphorical blood oozes from those metaphorical wounds and dyes the world bright red, bit by bit- drop by drop.

"I remember... the promise... I made."

"With Sayo?" Clair asks- and her voice is uncaring in comparison to Battler's, devoid of feeling like a winter's day.

"N-no..."

"With Beatrice?"

"N-not even that..." Battler shakes his head. His words are horribly fragmented, broken, as though that blood is running from his mouth- dribbling down his chin- and grief, regret, pain (so much pain) courses through his veins, foams in rivulets from his mouth.

Love is turning the golden land scarlet.

And Clair thinks that she is very blessed... because she can't fall in love.

She can't get hurt like this.

That may be a naïve perception- a childish thought, initial fear of something she doesn't understand- but Clair was born from naïve perceptions and a child's dreams, and perhaps _this _is what Clair vaux Bernardus is really made of.

Beatrice took Clair's grace and her beauty and her role as the witch of Rokkenjima's night.

But Clair kept that child's naïveté- because Beatrice was born when that child was older, but Clair was created when she was young, and Beatrice is more of a woman than Clair could ever be.

Clair is made from a fear of love and a lack of understanding; a disdain for a romance and an ingrained inability to ever truly learn how falling love feels.

Clair... is little more than a child.

A frightened child.

Battler's love is... frightening... her...

And Battler is closer to the truth than he has ever been before.

This isn't a mystery story.

Beatrice's game board doesn't need a detective.

This isn't even a fantasy.

Beatrice's game board doesn't need witches.

This... is a romance.

And Clair has no place- has _never_ had a place- in a romance.

Because falling in love would kill her.

"I-I made that promise with Shannon..." says Battler. "I-I did... But..."

He knows the truth.

He knows.

Battler didn't stop thinking- and even though Dlanor drove her spear through his mouth he has found the truth, and he has found Clair, and he has attempted to keep his promise and yet he knows it isn't enough unless somebody forgives him.

He can't forgive himself.

And neither can Shannon.

Because-

"Y-yasuda Sayo... Doesn't... exist."

* * *

**a/n: **so yeah :D I guess you could say this fic is somewhat canon-compliant, as it happens in a very specific part of the 5th game's canon? Battler learns the truth for himself in that bit, but I think it would make sense if he had Clair with him to help him along? XD

The next chapter should also be done soonsies, with nine million percent more tragedy and romance :D

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	5. Forgiveness

**There Are Only Ashes Here  
**Chapter Five

'Forgiveness'

* * *

"Shannon..." Battler frowns, looks at the floor. "M-maybe I should call her Sayo..."

Battler remembers his promise- his promise to come back, the promise he _broke_- and he doesn't know what to call that girl anymore. He feels strange, uneasy around her, as though she's a completely different person; there is more to Shannon than the good-natured, warm-hearted servant girl he was friends with, and to him, it feels like he never really knew her at all.

Ironically, these feelings of love- the realisation that she loved him, and he might have loved her, once upon a time- have only driven them apart.

Battler doesn't know Shannon anymore.

He doesn't even know her real name.

It's not Shannon.

It's not even Yasuda Sayo.

It's the name behind that.

The real person behind the personality.

Names are important. Clair knows this more than anyone- she who was once Beatrice, and then became nothing.

Clair made a new name for herself- and she's not sure how it came to be, exactly. All she knows is that one second she was nothing, and the next she was as she is now: Clair vaux Bernardus. The knowledge that she still has a title, even though that child didn't want her anymore, had keeps her alive.

Because Clair has a name her existence has meaning. Even if it's flimsy, building a person around a set of words when their head is empty and they can't think or feel, it's still better than nothing.

But what can Battler call Shannon?

What do you call the person whose heart you broke?

Battler can't call her 'Shannon' because that sounds so cold, impersonal; that's her servant's name, and Shannon was more than a servant to Battler.

But Battler can't call her 'Sayo' because that seems too close and intimate- and even if they were that friendly once, when Battler was young and said whatever stupid thing came into his head and Shannon was impressionable, hopeful, romantic enough to believe every word that came from his mouth, it's different now.

Battler doesn't deserve to call her 'Sayo' anymore.

Not after what he did.

And yet Battler knows- Clair can see the realisation in his face, hear it in his voice- that Shannon (or Yasuda Sayo) never truly existed to begin with.

Shannon is like Clair.

Another imaginary friend.

But Shannon's an imaginary friend that child never grew bored of- a facet of that girl's personality that became more than an illusion and, instead, became a real person.

Shannon is 'real' enough to count as a 'person' on Rokkenjima, and her corpse is always included in the death toll.

But how can an imaginary friend leave a corpse?

To that end, Clair is sure, when she dies- and she knows that time is coming soon, she knows her heartbeats are numbered, and maybe that's why being with Battler is tugging at her emotions in strange and unknown ways because he's her prince, he came to rescue her, but he's going to kill her all over again- she will not leave a body.

Clair will simply cease to be.

There'll be nothing left to prove she was ever alive at all; not dust, not ashes, not bones or a body.

Nothing.

She won't even have a funeral.

And nobody will cry for her, because they've all forgotten her already.

The only one who can see her, talk to her, touch her is Ushiromiya Battler- and as he begins to unravel the mystery of Beatrice's game board, and all the pieces fall into place, he- too- will learn just how flimsy and feeble Clair's 'existence' is.

It is his job to deny witches and magic, and even though he and Clair sip tea amicably in relative silence, these peaceful times will not prevail.

Battler will kill Clair.

It is inevitable.

If he is going to reclaim Beatrice's game board and defeat the evil witches, he will have to learn the truth.

And, in doing so, he will murder whatever remains of that girl he was trying to save.

Clair has to admire his resolve- because, even after he's been beaten and bruised and abused to extremes, Battler can still think, he won't stop thinking, and he still intends to win.

And Clair thinks it wouldn't be so bad to die... if it was by Ushiromiya Battler's hand.

It would be a fitting death for a once-was 'Beatrice' like her.

A noble death.

She is not afraid.

Even as Battler begins to unravel Beatrice's game board- first tugging on the loose end of Shannon, and pulling it until the image of that clumsy but kind servant falls apart- Clair is not afraid.

Because dying like this, sat opposite an 'opponent' as she plays the role of a witch, would be far more dignified than simply fading away without a trace.

And maybe Battler will still remember her after all.

"Sayo... I-I never realised how much she... ...cared about me."

Battler could have said (should have said) 'loved'. He knows how 'Shannon' felt. He knows her emotions were more than simply 'caring'- far, far more than that.

But he doesn't.

Maybe it's because he feels guilty.

"She did," says Clair. "She loved you."

"N-ngh..." Battler winces, as though he's been hit. "I-I... I know..."

"You can deny her existence," says Clair- and though her voice is unsympathetic, cold as the biting winds on a grey December day, there may be... just a trace of sympathy in there. "But she did love you. You can't deny that."

"D-damnit... I'm such... a terrible person. How could I not have realised? How could I...? S-so stupid..." Battler's fingers are clenched into fists- and, without thinking, he smashes one against the table-top. The cups and saucers rattle, cutting through the silent air of the golden land like a gunshot.

Battler's breathing is laboured. His eyes are closed so tightly it looks physically painful. His shoulders are shaking.

He's trying not to cry.

He's trying... to be strong.

He's trying to be the sort of 'prince' he jokingly told Shannon he was all those years ago.

He said he'd rescue her from the witches and wolves and monsters that lurked the night- that he'd drive them back into the shadows. He said he'd protect her, keep her safe, and wipe away her tears when she cried.

But... that was a lie.

His promises- all lies.

Because Battler never saved Shannon.

He nearly killed her.

And now it's his job- his role, on this game board, as the one who denies witches and divines the truth from a myriad of lies- to finish what he started.

Battler has to drive stakes of unshakable truth into Shannon's 'illusion'- into the body of that girl who loved him so much- and destroy her just as Dlanor tried to destroy him.

He has to.

Clair looks at Battler with blank eyes, empty- as though they'd been poked out of her head. They contain no softness. No pity. No sympathy.

No sentiments.

But, deep down, something in Clair is fluttering- meekly, at first, like a butterfly with tattered wings, but as Battler's distress becomes more and more pronounced so, too, does the rushing, bubbling, fluttering sensation in Clair's hollow heart.

She... doesn't want Battler to cry.

It shouldn't... be him... who murders Shannon.

It shouldn't be him who murders Beatrice.

Not when he's hurt them so much already.

Not when he's hurting so terribly himself.

Clair wants to comfort him.

She has to.

She doesn't want to see this person- this once arrogantly-smiling, confident, headstrong person- to fall to pieces like this.

"Don't feel guilty," says Clair.

It's a simple statement- and it's completely inadequate, really- but Clair's no good at words, she hasn't used them in so very long, and it's difficult manipulating them, stringing them together, to say what she truly means.

Language is too limiting.

Clair doesn't really know why she wants to comfort Battler, however. She doesn't know how to communicate her haze of half-formed thoughts or feelings; and there aren't enough words, or she doesn't know enough words, and it's difficult, and it's just a little painful.

But... her body feels leaden, heavy, and it hurts to move.

So Clair can do nothing else but talk.

Talk, with her monotone voice and poor vocabulary, and hope Battler understands.

She wants to comfort him like he comforted her.

It takes two people to sustain a universe...

Because, when there's only one, what do you do- who do you go to?- when you're sad and scared and alone?

That's why Clair was created.

That's why Shannon was born.

Because that child was lonely.

Cripplingly lonely.

Clair knows she should be thankful she can't feel anything- or that her feelings are so muted, dilated, that they might as well not exist at all. Because (and Clair never thought this before, but she's thinking this now) Clair knows, if she could feel, she'd have gone insane.

She would have lost her mind, being trapped in that place where the taken chess pieces go all by herself for so very long.

"D-don't... feel guilty...?" Battler asks. His voice is thick. His eyes are shining. "B-but... I-if I'd realised sooner..."

"Don't feel guilty," Clair reiterates, her voice stronger- more forceful- than before. And then- because it breaks the heart she doesn't have to see Ushiromiya Battler, who was once was bright and cheerful, on the verge of tears- "Don't cry."

"I-I'm not... M'not..." Battler shakes his head- but his denial is feeble, and even _he_ smiles (a broken little smile, but it's still a smile) at how utterly transparent his words are. "Haha... W-well... M-maybe a little..."

"Please. Don't..."

Clair doesn't think she's ever used the word 'please' before. The word sounds alien on her tongue.

"Please..."

It doesn't sound right.

"P-please don't cry..."

But Clair means it.

She means it with every particle of her barely-there being.

Battler looks at her with some surprise. His eyes are wide, shining with unshed tears, and his shoulders are trembling slightly.

But, after a while, he... smiles...

"O-okay. Okay. I-I wouldn't want to disappoint such a pretty girl."

With another self-deprecating laugh- Clair wishes he wouldn't do that. The sound tears through her, ripping and crunching and making her bleed for pity and pain- Battler wipes his eyes with his sleeve; but when he draws his hand away his eyes are still downcast, his smile still too shaky, and he doesn't look cheerful at all.

"I-I'm sorry," he apologises. Takes a deep breath in. "I-I gotta pull myself together. I-I must look so pathetic... Ha."

Another laugh- a short, sharp sound.

Clair flinches.

"I've been looking pre~tty pathetic for some time now. First, I get impaled through the roof of my mouth- and now I start bawling like a baby? Yeah. Smooth. Real smooth," Battler chastises himself.

Clair looks at him levelly.

"Aren't you meant to be the hero?"

"A-and a great job I'm doing at it, right?" Battler replies.

He smirks.

Smirks at himself.

But his lips tremble- and then, seconds later, his shoulders are shaking once more, and he's shuddering, and his eyes fill with tears and then (he tries so hard not to sob, he really, truly tries) he truly begins to cry.

"Battler?"

"I-I'm sorry," Battler apologies again, his voice thick, his tongue tripping over the simplest of words. His hands go to his face, trying to hide his tears from Clair although it's much too late- and even though he's crying, tracks of water trailing down his cheeks and dripping onto the table-top in a steady symphony, his cheeks are flushed, just a little, and he's embarrassed- obviously embarrassed.

"A-ah... D-damnit... Damnit... I-I..." Battler's words are broken fragments, jagged at the edges where they cut off suddenly for trembling and tears. "I... Ah... Hahaha... Pathetic... Useless. So _useless_."

Each and every one of his words hits Clair in her 'heart'- until even she begins to believe she could feel emotion, too.

This is 'love'.

This is what 'love' does.

It destroys people.

Even people like Ushiromiya Battler.

"I-if I'd figured out earlier, m-maybe I could have apologised... M-maybe..." Battler says. "B-but it's too late... I-I was too late... A-and I can't tell Sayo... or B-beato... I can't..."

Clair looks at him.

She looks at this person- not quite a man, but more than a boy- and she doesn't know what to do. Throughout her life other people have told Clair what to do, what to be, and Clair never questioned this, because she's not her own person.

She's a puppet.

A doll.

She feels what other people want her to feel, and then- when they throw her away- she feels nothing at all.

And that's how it should be.

That's fine.

But Clair knows she has to help Battler.

She has to...

But what can she- a lowly, discarded piece, a doll, an illusion- do?

She can't sympathise with Battler's feelings because she doesn't understand them.

She can't console him because she doesn't have the right words.

She can't even touch him on the arm, pat his head, pull him close, because her body isn't warm- it's deathly cold- and she can barely move without feeling pain.

Except...

There is one thing...

Clair could do.

She might be a scrapped doll, an unnecessary piece, but she was part of that girl once upon a time- she was spawned from the same creator as Shannon and Beatrice- and even though Clair isn't Shannon _or_ Beatrice she's the closest to them that anybody could be, could ever hope to be.

And maybe, just maybe, she is an acceptable substitute.

"Don't be sad," Clair says, repeating her previous words- though with more conviction in her voice than before. "Don't cry."

"C-clair?"

Battler looks up at her, wiping away his tears- but it's a fruitless task because they just won't stop, and more tears fall (they're dripping into his empty china cup, mixing with the last few vestiges of brown liquid pooled at the bottom) to replace those he's brushed away.

"It might not be worth much... After all, my existence is not worth much," says Clair slowly, her voice laboured, as she searches to find the right words- it's incredibly important she says the right things. "But Yasuda Sayo is sealed away on the game board, and Beatrice is gone."

Battler flinches at the word 'gone', but Clair still continues.

"I am the only remnant of 'Beatrice' left. And though I'm not at all alike to her... I could try to forgive you."

It is the most Clair has even spoken at any one time. When she falls silent her mouth feels dry, her throat sore, and her head is spinning. Talking requires too much energy; too much energy Clair doesn't have.

As Battler pieces this mystery together, he also begins to understand the mystery that is Clair.

And once he's solved her mystery he can destroy her illusion.

He can deny her, and Clair will die.

Even as he sits there, crying- humiliated to be crying but crying all the same, and this isn't right, he was meant to a 'prince', but he can hardly save himself. How could he save Shannon? How could he save Beatrice? He can't even save Clair- he's killing her.

He's killing her, and Clair's not sure if he even realises he's doing it.

"F-forgive me...?" Battler asks. "Ha... Hahaha..."

Clair hates that laugh.

She _hates _it.

Shouldn't laughter be happy? She's sure this is a childish thought- people are far more complex than that, and they frequently do confusing things Clair can't understand- but Clair was born from a child's mind, and Clair can't understand a lot of things.

She's not sure she wants to, either.

Being an 'adult' sounds painful.

And 'love' is terrifying.

"W-why would you want to forgive me?" Battler asks. "I don't deserve it..."

And the sad thing is, he believes it.

He truly believes he doesn't deserve to be forgiven.

And Clair soon begins to doubt herself.

Her feelings of 'forgiveness' are not really hers to give away.

Clair's existence is lighter than a feather, her being made of air and mists and fairytales, and if she gives up too much of herself- gouges handfuls of her pity and sorrow and pain out of her body and hands them to Battler so he can feel better- she knows she'll collapse in on herself like a tremulous house made of cards or a birds' nest in the trees.

How can she make Battler accept her feelings?

Can she truly give him those feelings in the first place?

Isn't she empty?

Isn't she a doll?

Clair shouldn't be thinking these things.

She shouldn't be thinking at all.

She shouldn't-

As Clair's mind races, undoing itself like a ball of yarn, her fingers tremble. The teacup in her hand begins to quake and shiver (she notes, with some surprise, she's still holding that cup. Didn't she put it down? Or did she just pick it back up?). Ripples form inside the contents of the cup as Clair's jerky motions become more pronounced.

Her fingers are sore.

Her grip is lax.

She should have seen this coming.

Or maybe... she already knew it would happen.

Clair can't help but feel she did this on purpose.

The teacup slips from Clair's hands.

"A-ah...!"

There is a blur of motion, boiling tea and fine china plummeting to the earth as one. The cup smashes upon impact with the soil- and that's funny, kind of strange, because Clair swears the cup was stronger than that (it felt solid in her hands), and the soil really isn't that hard.

How did it break?

Was it just more fragile than it appeared?

Or was Battler's 'magic' not strong enough to keep the cup in its original form?

The scalding tea doesn't spill across the soil.

Instead, it spreads across Clair's milky-white fingers and pale skirts.

It's hot.

Too hot.

Clair's skin is icy-cold in comparison to the boiling tea, and she winces as the two polar opposites come into contact with one another. The tea spreads across her hand in murky brown tendrils, forming patterns like a spider's web, burning lines of fire against her delicate flesh.

Burning.

It's burning.

"C-clair! A-are you alright?"

Battler abandons his own guilt and misery in the face of Clair's self-inflicted plight. Getting to his feet- he moves so quickly he almost upends his chair (why is he trying so hard? Why does he feel so responsible for something that is clearly Clair's fault?)- he crosses the short distance between himself and Clair.

He's standing next to her.

Holding her hand.

Was Battler always this close?

Did Clair always feel so... strange... when he touched her?

"It... hurts..." Clair says slowly, her voice dazed- and, at that moment, she's not sure whether she's talking about the tea, or the sensation of Battler's fingers against hers.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

Clair doesn't know.

But she does know that her fingers sting terribly.

Her heart hurts worse.

This pain only increases as Battler takes a napkin from thin air, from a cloud of butterflies, and begins to mop the tea off her fingers. His movements are gentle, and he exerts as little pressure as possible- but Clair still winces and bites her lip.

"Of course it hurts." Battler's voice sounds stern- and, for a few seconds, he sounds like a parent scolding a child.

Or a big brother berating a little sister.

Responsible.

Mature.

He's not crying anymore, though his eyes are still rimmed with red, and he's still trembling.

A big brother has to push his own feelings aside to comfort his younger siblings- and Clair supposes her clumsiness has triggered this protective instinct in Battler.

"I didn't expect it to hurt," says Clair, trying to justify her surprise- but it's not working, and Battler doesn't look convinced.

"Oh really?" Battler asks. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You spilt boiling tea on yourself- on _purpose_, might I add, 'cause if that was an accident then I'm a kettle."

Clair looks at Battler, interest splashed across her face, as she waits... Her brows are furrowed, her lips pursed, and her face unusually serious.

She looks and looks, but Battler doesn't change.

Battler gives Clair a funny look, one brow raised.

"I... was joking. I'm not really a kettle."

Clair nods.

Of course.

What was she expecting?

"Geez." Battler sighs, discarding one tissue and bringing forth another. "You're kind of... Aha..." He snorts, shakes his head. "Never mind."

But Clair's interest has been piqued, and she tilts her head questioningly.

"I'm kind of what?"

Battler pauses. It looks like he's pondering something.

Then, he smiles.

A real smile.

"Spacey."

"Spacey?"

"You act like you're not really here. Like you're somewhere else. I mean- you split tea on yourself, and then acted surprised when it hurt. How is that possible? That's just… strange…" Battler elaborates. His fingers have stopped dabbing at the spilt tea on Clair's hands; instead, they linger on her flesh, as Battler loses himself in thought.

Clair winces slightly as Battler unwittingly exerts more pressure on her scalded skin, pain blossoming through her body once more.

Battler notices Clair's discomfort and moves backwards, flushing slightly, embarrassed.

"I-I'm sorry- I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"It's okay."

It's fine.

It... really is.

"You can't help hurting people," Clair says- and her words are soft, her voice is slow, and her brows are furrowed as she trips over her words. Thinking for herself is too difficult- talking for herself is doubly so- and she's not sure she's saying the words right.

She's not sure she's even 'right' in her idle musings to begin with.

Without that child to confirm her thoughts, her feelings, her emotions, her existence means nothing. Nothing but smoke and mist and rumours of a witch in the forest; and when that child isn't guiding her thoughts (she hasn't been doing that for a long, long time) Clair knows her own feelings mean next to nothing.

But, even so...

Battler reacts to that.

He winces slightly, as though it was he who spilt tea on himself, and his eyes fall to the table.

"Y-yeah... Ihihi..." He gives a laugh- another fake laugh- and it's empty, but he's not even trying to fill it with any emotion anymore.

Clair doesn't like that laugh.

"I can't help hurting people. I can't." Battler sighs. He looks defeated. "I'm pretty stupid, right?"

"Perhaps."

And though Clair's fingers feel numb, almost paralysed with the lingering aftershocks of pain and the knowledge her illusion is crumbling to pieces (as Battler draws closer to the 'heart' of that child's mystery Clair's body falls apart, bit by bit), she reaches forwards, and takes Battler's hands in her own.

Her touch probably isn't comforting.

She's waifish.

Ethereal.

Almost dead.

She doesn't deserve to be alive.

But, even so, Battler looks up at his. His blue eyes- so full of life (because he's miserable and guilty but those are still emotions, real emotions, and they're so overwhelming it almost hurts to look at) unlike Clair's- bore into hers.

"C-clair...?"

"You shouldn't blame yourself. I keep trying to tell you. You don't listen. I wish you'd listen."

Clair continues to speak softly, slowly, as she measures each and every word. It's... an effort, trying to force syllables past her lips, and they catch in her throat, collapse in her head, and it's starting to hurt.

It hurts to think.

But it hurt when she spilt the tea on herself, too.

And Clair hasn't experienced 'hurt' in a long time.

It makes her feel... alive.

It's proof she still exists.

Even though she's a shell, a doll, a useless toy, the wind can still fan through her hair.

Boiling tea can still burn her hands.

And Ushiromiya Battler...

Can still make her heart flutter.

If she's still capable of thinking and feeling, then maybe- just maybe- she capable of 'forgiving', too.

And Clair wants to offer Ushiromiya Battler some salvation.

"You shouldn't feel so guilty," says Clair. "People... hurt people all the time. And I'm sure sometimes it's intentional, and sometimes it isn't, but everybody does it."

"B-but I... I..."

"Should have been more compassionate."

Battler opens his mouth. It looks like he's going to reply- but no noise comes out, and his blue eyes begin to glaze over again.

Clair holds his hand even tighter- and it's strange really, because Clair's whole life is built on hopes and dreams and fantasies and things you can't touch, but can only imagine. And yet, underneath her fairytale fingers made of a child's wishes on shooting stars, Ushiromiya Battler feels incredibly real.

Clair has no right to cling onto something with substance- and, for a few seconds, she's scared (truly scared) that she might infect him.

That Battler might become an illusion, too.

Clair is the witch.

And Battler is the prince.

Clair knows, from the fairytales that child was told by that kind, motherly servant when she was very, very young, that the witches are always 'evil', and the witches always die.

It seems fitting, somehow, that Battler- Shannon's 'prince'- will be the one who kills her.

But Clair isn't a witch, not really.

And the princes from fairytales don't exist anymore than witches do.

Battler is still a human.

He still makes mistakes.

And Clair's glad he does, because that makes him real- wonderfully real. His skin is warm under her fingers and his eyes well with emotion and those soft sobs wrench themselves painfully from his throat- and it's sad, and it's painful, and it's beautiful, too, because this what real people are like.

Clair hasn't spoken to 'real people' in so long.

Ushiromiya Battler isn't perfect.

But if he was 'perfect', that would make him an illusion, too.

And Clair envies these flawed, imperfect people- these real human beings- because they make bad choices and they don't keep their promises and they hurt the ones they care about the most, but that is true for all human beings (nobody is infallible) and that makes them so much more amazing than imaginary friends could ever be.

Battler, even when he's in tears and trying desperately hard not to show it, is still more dazzling than Clair could ever be.

Imperfections and all.

"You hurt her feelings. You broke her heart," says Clair. Her voice remains cool, detached- but she cares, she truly cares, and maybe, if some of her 'caring' can seep past her unchanging outside appearance (even if it's just a little bit), that could be enough. "But you shouldn't cry. And you shouldn't feel guilty. Because everybody makes mistakes. It wasn't... just you."

"Y-you're saying I should... blame somebody else?" Battler asks, his voice badly fragmented with tears and pain. "I-I... I can't do that!"

"No," says Clair, voice level. "Accept your own blame. But... I don't think you should apologise for something that makes you human."

"Y-you say that like you're not a 'human' yourself."

Clair pauses, caught off guard by Battler's statement.

All of a sudden his eyes seem too intense, too searching (he's questioning her, he's solving her puzzle, and under that gaze Clair feels herself falling apart), and Clair has to look away.

She can't face him.

But her hands are still in his, and she shivers- a chill runs down her spine- as Battler gently squeezes her hands; a small, comforting motion.

"Clair. Who are you?"

And the thing is, Clair doesn't know.

She's not sure.

She should be a doll.

But dolls can't think and dolls can't feel, and dolls can't sense pain when tea is splashed across their skin.

She was a doll once- she knows this for certain. It's an unshakable fact, just as the sky is blue and the grass is green and red truth is, and always will be, 100% certain.

But when Clair is with Battler, she doesn't feel like a doll.

She feels like something more.

But what, exactly, is 'more' than nothing?

What is she?

Who exactly... is Clair vaux Bernardus?

* * *

**a/n: **The scene where Clair spills tea on herself was the first scene I had in my mind when I decided to write this fic. I then based everything else around that. So it was meant to be important- but I'm not sure if I got that across, aheheh XD

This is a really weird fic, isn't it? It seems like not much happens- and it doesn't, really. It does have a /plot/, but it's very vague, and a lot of it is spent on mixed thoughts and feelings. I guess it's not really a plot-driven fic at all, but a character study? Clair slowly begins to become 'something' after being an empty 'nothing' for so long? Idk XD I'm sure some people would find very slow, explorative fics like this really dull, but I hope the people who like that sort of thing enjoy this collection of half-formed ramblings XD

**~renahhchen xoxo**


	6. Love

**There Are Only Ashes Here  
**Chapter Six

'Love'

* * *

Who is Clair vaux Bernardus?

Clair doesn't know.

She's not sure that child- the one who created her- even knows anymore; not after she threw Clair away.

Maybe Clair is 'nothing'.

But nothing doesn't think.

Nothing doesn't feel.

Clair was nothing once, but she's more than that now; she can feel the weight of her skirts pressing lightly against her knees, and her off-white hair dancing in the breeze like a gauzy bride's veil. Her fingertips still shiver with aftershocks of pain- like being stabbed by needles, pain lacing through her ghastly waxwork skin- and her head swims with half-formed thoughts, made of less substance than even she is.

Her body trembles.

Her head aches.

Her heart hurts.

And this is proof she's less than nothing.

She's 'something'.

But Clair... doesn't know what that something is.

She doesn't know why she's there.

But she's sure Battler will tell her. Isn't that his job? To pick up all the pieces and fit them into neat little slots with neat little labels- to take apart the mystery and expose its innards for all to see?

Clair might be more than 'nothing', but she's still only a_ componen_t; a character in a story, a piece in a plot.

Disposable.

Expendable.

Meaningless?

Even though she 'exists'...

She might not mean anything...

"Clair."

Clair looks up, her eyes widening just a touch, as she realizes- she realizes it with a jolt, because this has never happened to her before- that she was lost in thought. Completely distracted. Clair rarely thinks; the contents of her mind wouldn't be enough to form a puddle. But when Battler appeared so did the rainclouds, and the confusion and the compassion and the pain, and it rained and rained inside her head until her thoughts became so numerous- so dizzying- the puddle grew bigger and bigger and then she thinks she might have drowned.

But Battler saved her.

He lent her his hand, and he pulled her out of the flood.

"You don't need to know who you are. I'll find out for you. S'no problem- I'll just add it to my already extensive to-do list," says Battler- and he offers her a small smile. She supposes it's supposed to be comforting, and it's not- not really.

It's a shadow of his usual grin.

But, even so...

It sets that small part of her heart spinning.

"I mean, I'm meant to be the one figuring this out," Battler continues. "I'm going to be the detective on Beato's game board- I don't give a damn what that little blue-haired Gothic Lolita pest thinks. I was here first. It's my job to solve this mysterys!"

The energy in Battler's voice isn't completely convincing. It sounds forced, strained, stretched to breaking point- because he was crying just a few moments ago, wasn't he?

But now he's smiling.

Is he smiling... for Clair?

Clair tried to comfort him...

And now he's doing the same for her.

Why?

And yet, despite her initial confusion, Clair can't help but feel... flattered.

Is this how human beings justify their own existences?

By being cared about, and caring for others in return?

In the grand scheme of things, separate people don't mean that much at all.

They're tiny.

Insignificant.

It's only when people care about each other- _'it takes two people to create a universe_'- that they give themselves reasons to exist, to be_ alive._

If Battler cares...

Then maybe Clair has a right to exist.

Being cared about... It seems to mean more- so much more- than having a name or a body or even a real physical existence; and though Clair has all of these things, she's always felt empty. Like there was something missing. A Halloween pumpkin with it's insides scooped out- and then left to rot.

But when Battler looks at her like that, Clair feels her heart constrict in her chest.

Her face feels strangely flushed.

Is her reaction... strange?

"It's not strange," Battler says. He grins. "It's how any girl should react when seeing a guy like me, ihihi!"

"...Really?"

Battler's grin only widens at this. He pulls his hands free from Clair's- and, for a strange, disoriented moment, Clair's hand feels strangely empty. Her fingers twitch, gripping mid-air- and without Battler, without somebody to hold onto, how can she prove she's real?

If Battler stopped caring, would she stop existing?

But then Clair feels a weight on her head, and that familiar warmth begins to spread through her body- resting in her erratically beating heart.

Battler is patting her on the head.

"Not really. I know I'm amazing and all, but don't feel obliged to swoon over me," says Battler, smiling gently. "It seems to cause... problems... when girls do that. I can't really understand why Sh- Sayo..." But Battler begins to look just a touch embarrassed, and even more upset, and he shakes his head. His smile fractures slightly- but he manages to repair it so quickly Clair's not sure whether she was seeing things or not.

"You're so naïve, Clair," says Battler- still trying to smile.

It's a strange, off-hand comment- and Clair's not sure why he said it.

Maybe he just wanted to change the subject.

Because when Battler talks about Sayo he can't laugh or smile or joke around.

He can't pretend it doesn't hurt him.

He's trying to be strong for Clair's sake- he's trying to comfort her, to draw her out of her misery even though Clair's never truly felt 'misery' before and Battler doesn't really understand how she works at all- and he can't be strong (he can't be the prince) when he's thinking about the princess he couldn't save.

But maybe he's thinking he can save Clair.

And maybe he can.

He can save Clair from her endless existence comprised of... being alive- in body, but not in soul. Of having a working heart and working brain, but no working feelings.

Battler can save her from that.

Maybe Battler can save _this_ princess.

"I... suppose I am... Naïve... A little..." says Clair haltingly, unsure how to respond.

"Ihihi~ You shouldn't admit to things like that," Battler laughs- though it's happy this time, not desperately self-deprecating or sad; and Clair thinks she likes this laugh a lot more.

Ushiromiya Battler should always be smiling- always be cheerful.

Misery doesn't suit him.

"Don't you want to hit me?" he asks.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"I was kind of being a jerk. If I said something like that to Beato, she'd totally hit me," says Battler, letting his hand drop from Clair's head. "But not you."

"I'm not Beatrice."

"You're nicer than Beato."

"I... Um..."

Clair bites her lower lip, looks at the floor. She doesn't know what to say. Is he teasing her again?

But the mention of Beatrice seems to have stirred something in Battler. He draws away from Clair- though he takes her hand again, and he intertwines their fingers together, and Battler's shaking just a little bit and Clair's surprised to find she is too.

Why is she shaking?

But she knows the answer.

She can see it splashed across Battler's face, plain as day.

He can't keep avoiding the subject.

He has to keep thinking.

If he stops thinking will his body 'die' on the game board? His carcass has been impaled by one of Dlanor's divine spears- and Battler doesn't have much time left.

Clair doesn't have much time left.

He can't cry now.

He has to keep reasoning.

Maybe his mind has been reasoning this whole time, even whilst he tried to hide his tears and then tried to comfort a girl in far less need of emotional support than he himself was.

Still is.

But he still holds her hand.

He doesn't let go.

Clair thinks maybe there's some kind of meaning in that but she's not quite sure, and she knows what happens to stupid people who hazard guesses at things they can't understand ("_I'll come back for you on a white horse.")_

They get hurt.

"I already know... about Shannon. Sayo," says Battler. "A-and I'm thinking, what I did... Must have been a trigger for the murders on Rokkenjima."

"It was a murder of 'love'," Clair replies.

She knows it's a meaningful phrase- 'a murder of love'.

The motive.

The whydunnit.

Ushiromiya Battler promised to come back, and he never did- or, at least, not in time. Never in time. Just like a Greek tragedy.

But Clair doesn't really understand the concept of 'love', let alone committing a murder for it, so the phrase seems hollow- empty- when it comes from her lips. It feels like a lie.

A girl made from make-believe and fantasy can't be truthful even if the tea still scalds her skin and the heart still pumps blood around her body, can she...?

Who is she...?

"R-right... 'Love'. At least it wasn't about the inheritance, o-or money, I guess..." Battler glares down at the table-top, his fingers still entwined with Clair's. "N-not that it changes anything. People still died. Damnit... Damnit..."

"But it narrows down the culprits."

"Y-yeah. If it was a murder of 'love'... Then the killer was... Shannon?"

"A part of Shannon," Clair replies- and she sees Battler flinch at this confirmation, even though he knew it was coming; he _knew_- so why does he act like it hurts so much?

The amount of misery in Battler's face is just a little disconcerting; and, at once, Clair feels very young and very childish.

She thought she knew pain simply by burning her fingers- but her pain is nothing compared to Battler's.

It's completely different.

Not at all the same.

Will she ever understand pain like this?

Does she want to?

Will that make her more 'human'?

"Or maybe Shannon was a part of the murderer," says Clair, amending her previous statement.

"Shannon... and Beatrice... Are one and the same."

Battler speaks slowly, cautiously- as though he's worried another red spear will come flying from nowhere, embedding itself through one of his eyes.

He's waiting for a rebuke.

But Dlanor A. Knox isn't in the golden land, sipping at the awful tea and staring at the scenery, and she can't use her red sword to cut down Battler's theory.

She wouldn't have been able to, at any rate.

Because it's true.

Battler isn't the one who gets hurt from his deduction.

It's Clair.

Clair gives a sharp, pained gasp. Fire pierces through her ragdoll body- just like the tea, just like it, but this pain doesn't spread haphazardly in spider web lines. Instead, it digs straight through blood and bone and muscle and nerve-endings so thin and fine they might as well not be there at all, in one side of her body and out of the other. It stings terribly the whole way, as though Clair's skin is being lanceted with needles, sewing up pictures of unbearable agony over and over again through her lily-white skin.

It feels like something's been broken.

Maybe several somethings.

But that's the past tense- the wrong tense- because even when the fire leaves the pain still remains.

It's breaking.

Clair is breaking.

Clair's body is being torn apart by words and reasoning- and it won't stop.

Battler won't stop getting closer to the truth.

He knows.

He knows...

"C-clair!"

Battler's eyes widen in alarm as Clair's whole body tenses up, her pupils dilating and her lips contorting and her whole body trembling as though she's about to collapse.

"I-it's..." Clair shakes her head- or, at least, she tries to, but her body won't obey her brain. "It's nothing..."

"It's not nothing. It's anything but."

Battler speaks with intensity. His eyes are hard, and his lips are pulled into a scowl- and where's that easy-going smile from before, where's that good natured humor?

They've melted away, like freshly fallen snow.

Humans... have so many emotions.

It's a little dizzying.

How do they know what to feel all the time? Or can they not help it?

Clair has to think so hard- _**really**_ concentrating, until the inside of her head hurts and her body feels even weaker- to produce 'proper' responses to certain stimuli; but Battler does it with ease.

It's almost as if he's not aware of it at all.

Maybe he isn't.

Maybe he's just impulsive.

And he cares far, far too much.

Why does he care...?

"Why shouldn't I care?" Battler asks- and Clair starts, because she doesn't realize she was speaking aloud, muttering words with no proper sentence structure as she runs half-formed thoughts through her head. "**I** care."

"Really?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it," says Battler- and then that soft smile is there, just touching the corners of his lips, but his eyes are still intense, smoldering, and yet even so it... makes Clair feel better. "I'm not like those witches and demons. I don't spout lies I don't mean."

"Or make promises you don't intend to keep."

Battler flinches at this comment slightly- and Clair's not sure why she said it at all.

She likes Battler more when she's smiling.

But maybe... she's trying to test that smile.

To see just how strong it is.

Humans are interesting.

So interesting...

"...Haha... Ouch," says Battler, ruffling the back of his hair- and it's already so messy it doesn't make much difference, really. "T-that... was a pretty low blow... I-I don't really want to talk about it..."

"You have to talk about it."

"I know. I'm not going to run away. It's just..."

"It is just...?"

Battler looks at Clair. His eyes are downcast, melancholy- and it's so sad, so unfitting for Ushiromiya Battler, that it makes Clair's empty heart filled with ashes, pumping dust, flutter with that strange, unknown emotion she's only heard about in fairytales.

Clair shudders.

She feels... very cold.

This feeling is new, and it's strange, and it's scary- and she's not sure she likes it.

Clair has been constant for so long that change- the mere prospect of change- is frightening.

But everything changes in the end, doesn't it? Even steadfast rocks are worn away over time- even if it takes thousands of years by the sea and surf and wind until they're smooth and bits break away.

Pieces of Clair's body are... breaking away.

Maybe Battler's reasoning is not the only poison that plagues her soul; tears her apart; tugs at the loose threads of her inexplicable existence and unravels the fast-fading illusion.

It's this feeling...

These feelings are killing her.

Infecting her mind.

Eating her heart.

They'll kill her.

This is... too much...

Far too much.

When that child tried to make her 'love' before it shattered Clair; took her delicate spine and snapped it in two; wrapped icy fingers round the heart she no longer has and squeezed- squeezed until it burst and black blood bubbled out of the wound in her chest.

Clair can't love.

And, in turn, she can't _be _loved.

The look in Battler's eyes- a mixture of pity, of pain, of sorrow and sympathy- is painful.

And the irony is, when Battler next speaks, his voice is soft (and that hurts even more);

"I don't... want to hurt you."

"But it's inevitable," says Clair, her voice detached- emotionless.

"I know, I know..."

"So do it quickly."

Clair tries to sound strong- tries to sound brave- but her voice falters.

She shakes, and Battler continues to look at her with those downcast eyes filled with so much sadness it's more than she can bear- more than she deserves.

Why... does he care so much?

He shouldn't care.

Or it'll kill him.

Just like it's killing Clair...

And Clair doesn't want to hurt him.

There's a short pause.

But, eventually, Battler nods.

"O-okay. I'll try..." he says; and his own voice is fragmented, unsure- and the mere knowledge that he cares is just enough to make Clair's heartbeat flutter, like the tentative first flight of a baby bird.

This emotion is a new one, and it's strange and frightening, and Clair thinks- although its hard to tell when her whole body feels so old and everything aches so much- that perhaps this is more painful, hurts more (a lot more) than the inescapable truth as Battler picks apart her illusion; destroys all the threads that crisscross intricately together to make Clair vaux Bernardus.

"I-if Shannon and Beato are the same person... T-then they're both 'metaphors'...?"

Metaphors.

'Illusions.'

Illusions don't leave bodies, no matter how many people believe in them.

Feeding into a lie doesn't make a lie the truth- and whilst Shannon is considered by so many to be a 'real' servant she's not, not really.

She disappears without a trace.

And she never leaves a corpse.

In the first game Battler never saw her body; it was lying on the floor, half her face torn off, her limbs bent at awkward angles in a pool of sticky crimson blood.

Battler never saw her body in the second game either. Nor the third or fourth- and she didn't die in the fifth one, anyway.

A person who has never possessed a body cannot leave a body.

It's logical reasoning.

But Shannon didn't _remain _dead in the third game, did she? Illusions playing dead forever would've been far too simple for Beato's complex game board; instead, that blonde witch had to throw in a few more twists to complicate the already-tangled story even more.

Beato brought Shannon back.

She revived her.

Even though Shannon's body was slumped over in that chair, eyes wide but empty and the crimson rose petals of a beautiful flower blooming on the front of her shirt, above the space her heart should be, she still came back for George- to say farewell to the man she loved.

Corpses can't do that.

But it's not so very hard to revive an illusion.

That is, if the person who made the imaginary friend is willing to welcome them back.

"And, following on from that," Battler says, "the same could be said... about Kanon?"

How did Kanon die in that closed room in the third game without leaving a body?

The answer is simple.

He never had a body to leave.

He's another creature... just like Clair.

Red.

Clair's vision goes red.

A startled gasp wrenches itself, painfully, from her open lips; her eyes widen, as a sudden burst of pain, pain, white-hot _pain_, surges through her body- cuts the strings that support her and nearly sends her tumbling forwards onto the tabletop. But she can't move. She can only sit there, as the truth pierces through her body unyielding, unrelenting; it hurts to breathe (she gasps, trying to snatch handfuls of air but they taste sharp against her tongue and they make her choke) until it feels like her lungs aren't even filling with oxygen anymore.

Instead, they're pooling with blood.

Did... Battler just pierce something important...?

But... it shouldn't hurt this much...

Clair feels her heart fill some with strange, unknown emotion- all emotions are strange for her, and trying to place names to them is something like wandering blindly in a dark forest without a light to guide your way- and it's so intense it scares her.

It's getting hard do distinguish the pain in her limbs and the pain in her lungs and the pain in her head because everywhere hurts and she's not sure which part of her hurts quite the most, or whether that really matters when everything feels like it's on fire.

Does it matter?

What will happen... when she dies?

Clair is struck with a sudden, strange thought.

Or maybe it's a regret.

She's doesn't want to die.

She's been existing for so long, doing nothing, saying nothing, but still existing, that the prospect of her body crumbling away until _she's _truly _nothing _is frightening.

The unknown is so scary...

"Clair!"

Clair feels fingertips round her arms- and, somehow, she's falling forwards (her bones can't support her body anymore and it feels like her skin is melting away)- and then she's on the floor, her leg bent back (her ankle hurts- it's the same one she twisted last time, and he had to carry her because she couldn't move) and her head pressed against somebody's chest...

There are arms around her.

Holding her close.

Clair can feel a heartbeat- not hers- pounding in her ears, and she swears its almost as erratic as her own.

Her own heartbeat is unsteady, irregular; it skips around, sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow, and sometimes it seems to stop completely and then Clair's half-convinced she's already dead.

Maybe this a dream.

If it's a dream, it feels... nice...

Battler's arms are round her, pressing her shuddering body close to his, and his fingers are running through her off-white hair (the pearls shimmer softly in the sunlight of the golden land, and they clink together in a haunting melody as Battler's inelegant fingers catch against them), and he's... so warm... Clair's never felt this warm before...

She's always been alone.

Always.

But now somebody's with her, holding her close- holding her like her body has substance (she's not just an empty cage to hold flesh and bone and little else besides); he holds her like she has thoughts and feelings and she's made of 'something' rather than 'nothing'.

And maybe that's enough.

Battler's belief gives her a meaning.

Could he be...

The second person in her universe?

And maybe, just maybe, if Clair has a 'meaning'... she can feel emotion, too.

"C-clair, are you alright...?"

Clair nods slightly- and she's not sure how she manages it when everything aches so much and her body doesn't want to listen to her brain (it wants to disengage; it still hurts, everything hurts), but she still does it.

"Y-yes..."

Her voice is broken. Barely a whisper.

But Battler hears her.

"Clair..."

Battler speaks her name softly, hesitantly.

He doesn't want to hurt her.

When he reveals her real identity, will she disappear?

Will she turn to dust and ashes and scatter in the wind?

Clair's not sure.

She closes her eyes, leans into Battler's embrace (he's warm and she's so very cold and it's a comfort, it's something like a blessing, and she always thought she'd disappear without a funeral, with nobody to mourn her body, but maybe just maybe if one person cares if Battler cares that's enough and her existence will have meant something and she doesn't feel quite so empty anymore) and waits.

She waits for her prince- her savior- to set her free.

Clair doesn't want to die.

She really, truly doesn't.

But that's selfish.

All humans are selfish.

And Clair's not sure whether to be disgusted with herself, or happy that, for the first time in her life...

She wants something for herself.

With all her heart.

She wants to stay with Battler.

In this embrace.

Forever.

He couldn't save Shannon- he was far too late- but he might be able to save Clair...

But Clair knows, without Battler, her body will fall apart and her illusion will be undone; nobody 'believes' in her, not even she does, and it's time for her to slip back into the fog and become one with the mist again.

It's time for her to return to being a fantasy.

A fantasy of a witch.

That was all she ever was, anyway.

And all she ever will be.

And... she shouldn't be scared, not really...

Because, at the end of her life, she might just have found out what it means to be 'human.'

And that's more than enough.

It should be... ... enough...

It's getting... even harder to think...

Everything's falling to pieces.

It's breaking.

Because Battler doesn't believe...

She's breaking...

"C-clair..."

His voice falters. Catches on the tip of his tongue. Cuts his throat like glass.

He pulls Clair closer, and she's still trembling, still shuddering, as she tries to cling onto her flimsy existence- selfishly, so_ selfish_- just a little longer.

Battler's hesitating.

She won't die unless he... says it...

Illusions to illusions.

Clair's body is returning into the nothingness of half-formed rumors (_a witch in the forest who wears white and spider webs are toxic to her touch_) and darkness; oblivion.

But her heart is still beating.

Her mind is still thinking.

And she's dying...

Slowly...

But Battler won't let her die.

"Y-you shouldn't feel guilty..." Clair mutters, her voice even quieter than usual; almost engulfed by the melancholy sound (just like bells; tolling the end of her life like a clock, counting down, always counting down) of those beautiful pearls clinking in her silky hair. "Y-you're... just... doing your job..."

"I-I know..."

But his voice is shaking.

Clair wants to comfort him- wants to pull him close and make him feel protected just like he's protecting her, his arms shielding her from a harsh reality that won't accept her- but she can barely move, and her whole body feels numb.

But she can still... talk...

"D-don't cry... O-or..."

Clair gives a small gasp. Her heart is pounding and her eyes are stinging, eyelashes trembling.

"O-or I'll cry too..."

"H-ha..." Battler gives another humorless laugh (but it's warmer than his previous ones- it sounds like he's trying to comfort her, trying to stay strong. To play a role. To be the 'prince' he could never be with Shannon), and rests his head atop of Clair's. "I-I'll try... I-I'm trying, okay?"

"I-it's not your job... T-to sympathize with i-illu-" Clair's voice trembles, then falters, at the word 'illusion'.

She can't say it.

Denouncing her own existence causes a sharp, acute pain to course through her body- making her whimper.

"W-when you k-kill me... Y-you'll learn the truth... T-the full truth... A-and you can get B-beato's game board back..."

"I know..."

Clair feels fingers under her chin- and then Battler tips her head back gently, almost lovingly, and her empty blue eyes stare into Battler's and she's sure they're not that empty anymore, not at all...

He's smiling softly.

Sadly.

Once upon a time Clair didn't understand humans with their emotions; there were too many of them, they were far too complicated. When you smile you're supposed to be happy- so how could a 'sad' smile exist?

Humans really were... difficult to comprehend...

And Clair never really tried.

She didn't need.

But now, she thinks she might be able to grasp the concept of Battler's pain...

Just a little.

He's miserable.

Wretched.

But he's still trying to smile for her.

For her...

"I know I've got to learn the truth... If I ever want to get back at 'Miss Intellectual Rapist'," says Battler, laughing softly. He shakes his head. "But is it worth it... W-when learning the truth will hurt the people I care about...?"

"That's for you to decide."

But Clair doesn't think a person like Battler will be willing to believe in a fantasy.

He's always searching for the truth- even if it's hidden in the smoke.

Always.

And even now, as he comforts Clair, he's still searching.

Maybe he's found it already.

Clair gives a weak gasp. She coughs- it's a raw, painful sound- and her fingers (they're so clumsy, inelegant, its difficult to move- but they never used to be like that, she used to be so graceful) go to her lips instinctively.

When the coughing subsides and her body slumps, tired and almost lifeless against Battler, she draws her pale fingers away...

And sees they're dusted with blood.

She's bleeding.

"B-but y-you have to hurry... A-and m-make up your mind..." says Clair. "B-because... I-I'm..."

Dying.

She's already dying.

Battler's eyes widen at the sight of Clair's blood.

It's so bright against her pale fingers, ivory skin, white clothes.

So red.

Too red.

Somehow- horribly enough- that bright red blood seems to be the only part of Clair vaux Bernardus that's really real.

"I'm sorry..." says Battler. His voice cracks; it sounds like he wants to look away, hide- pretend this isn't happening and he's_ not_ going to kill her- but he can't.

Maybe there are some things you can't run from.

And isn't running away... a childish thing to do?

Battler's not a child.

He's a man.

A prince...?

"S-s'okay," Clair replies- and her lips quirk up, ever so slightly- into the smallest smile.

It can barely be called a 'smile'- just as Clair can barely be called a 'human'.

It flickers.

Fades.

But it was still a smile.

"I... I don't know much about you. And it might not mean very much... but I'm sorry," says Battler.

"I-I... f-for-"

But Clair's voice cuts out, dies away, as another jolt of pain stabs through her- she feels something tear in her throat (it was probably important)- and she can't speak anymore, can't make any more noises except broken gasps as blood (red, it's so red, and her skin's too pale; it's draining the life from her and it won't stop) dribbles out of her mouth from a twisted and broken throat.

She coughs.

More blood- so dark it's almost black- drip drip drips down her chin, oozing, pooling on her white dress.

Staining her clothes.

"You don't have to forgive me," says Battler. "You don't... D-don't try too hard..."

Clair shudders, her eyelashes flickering like a doll's- her vision is beginning to go blurry- black spots eat at her eyesight- and her heartbeat's humming, flickering, guttering out like the flame on a candle...

Clair feels a light pressure against her forehead.

It's warm.

S-so warm, so comforting, and she's so cold- and she's choking on her own blood, her body is seizing up, but when she's with Battler it's not so bad maybe just maybe it'll be fine this is fine she's not scared she won't be scared-

Battler kisses her forehead gently.

His fingers brush her hair out of her eyes.

He smiles- though its trembling slightly, and Clair's not sure it'll last very long.

"A-alright..." Battler breaths in. Gathers the words in his head.

His eyes are still shining.

It looks like he's going to cry.

Clair's crying.

When did she start crying?

Her tears mix with the blood trickling thin thread-like crisscross patterns against her chalky white skin.

Her tears are being dyed light crimson.

"I-I'm no good at saying goodbye... A-ah, that sounds so cheesy..." Battler smiles weakly- holds the still-trembling Clair in his arms, as though trying to protect her from the cruel world that won't let her be alive just a few seconds longer for a proper goodbye...

"B-but I'll try to say... what I want to say... A-and then you can sleep."

Sleep.

It sounds nice.

Nicer than dying.

Maybe she can rest for thousands of years like a silent waxwork, a sleeping princess, and some day somebody will come and rescue her...

"To Shannon- Yasuda Sayo... I-I'm sorry. I-I'm so sorry... I should have realized how you felt sooner... A-and I shouldn't have made that promise..." says Battler- and his eyes are sparkling; sparkling like stars in the inky black night sky.

"A-and to Beato... I-I think maybe, deep down, I-I always cared about you- and I never hated you. Not at all. Never... Ihihi... H-how stupid.

"And to Clair... Clair vaux Bernardus..."

Battler looks at her. His eyes never leave hers- as though he's worried, if he turns his head (if he lets go) she'll crumble right then and there and disappear back into the dust.

Illusions into ashes, where she belongs.

Battler... smiles...

"I-I hope... I'm doing the right thing. A-and you don't have to forgive me- but please, don't hate me."

Clair doesn't.

She couldn't.

Maybe, even somebody- an incomplete, unfinished, imperfect (but all humans are imperfect, does that make her human?) doll- like her...

Can understand what 'love' is.

And it hurts.

It hurts even more than her torn throat, ruptured insides, unraveling existence and pain, pain everywhere, needling into every side of her- but she bites her lip her mouth's still bleeding) and tries to suppress her shudders.

Tries to be strong.

Love hurts.

Caring about people hurts.

But that's part of... being human... isn't it...?

She can hear Battler.

Hear him above the sound of her own heartbeat.

This is it he's going to kill her and she's going to die no not die

"Clair vaux Bernardus' existence is similar to Shannon's... K-kanon's... B-beato's... They're one and the same."

One and the same and

they all go back

to

the same

place.

Illusions to illusions.

It hurts.

Hurts.

But isn't that part of being human?

You hurt people

And you get hurt

And that might not

be such a

bad

thing

because it shows

that you're

alive

and

and-

and...

"Clair... and Shannon, Kanon... Beato... Are all facets of one person. They're all... illusions."

Clair feels something wet drip against her cheeks- falling rain?

Is it rain?

No...

Tears.

Somebody's crying.

Crying for her...?

The tears don't mean much.

It's far too late

it's too late

She's still-

It's still-

fading...

fading...

B-but wait...

N-no...

There's somebody Battler hasn't apologized to.

There's something missing.

That child...

T-that child...

H-he needs to...

Clair opens her mouth.

It hurts to talk.

It would be easier to fade away now- to disintegrate into powder- and she can feel her body collapsing already-

She needs to tell him.

She needs to

Clair's fingers tremble-

It hurts to move-

They catch in mid-air, wavering-

But Battler takes hold of her hand, holding it in his, and he's saying something (Clair doesn't know what) and he's not smiling anymore but he didn't apologize to that child he didn't tell her this is all that child's fault Clair's an illusion but _she's_ not he has to apologize he needs to know he's forgiven because she would forgive him, she would, she needs to tell him about

"W-wait..."

Her throat is filled with ash.

Her mouth is filled with blood.

But she still says it.

She'll make sure he knows...

Clair smiles.

A real smile.

Her body is falling apart- her illusion has been denied completely- but, still, she smiles.

Battler couldn't keep his promise.

But Clair can forgive him.

Everybody makes mistakes

don't feel so guilty

she wouldn't want it

that child

she doesn't hate

okay

she doesn't...

she never did

not really

you need to apologize to her

she doesn't hate

but she'd be happy

she'd feel so happy

let her know

you need to know

about her

that child

that person

"T-that person... who loved you..."

Clair coughs.

More blood bubbles from her mouth.

"H-her name..."

She can't feel her fingertips anymore.

"-was..."

She can't feel her arms, legs- and the feeling of numbness is eating away at her body, tearing skin off bone and leaving no blood not anymore because

"-w-was..."

when Clair dies

_"Yasu."_

There are only ashes left.

And they scatter quickly.

As though she never existed at all.

* * *

Clair closes her eyes

Her heart beats its last beat

Her lungs breathe her last breath

And it's funny

sort of

maybe

not really

but she's not scared

battler still holds her

and it's not

that

bad

she thought it would hurt more

but instead

it stops

hurting

alto-

ge

t

h

e

r-

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

?


	7. Epilogue: Theater

**There Are Only Ashes Here  
**Epilogue

'Theater'

* * *

It's bright when she opens her eyes.

Impossibly bright.

What... is she doing here...?

Memories flicker through her mind; hazy images, blurred at the edges, empyreal- more like dreams than anything else (but they're not dreams, they can't be, because Clair has never dreamt before).

He was holding her.

He...

Who...?

_Battler._

He learnt the truth... Took Beatrice's (the _real_ Beatrice- not the washed-out faded sepia-tainted memory of Beatrice that is Clair) game board back.

And he killed her...

He killed Clair.

She died in his embrace and crumbled into dust.

Shouldn't she be dead?

This... isn't right.

H-has she been fooled somehow?

Tricked?

Is this a trick?

B-but it's so bright she can hardly think clearly; the harsh lights keep in her place, like a fragile butterfly being pinned to a board, and her wings are all torn and broken now, Clair _should_ be all torn and broken...

Her skin is ghostly pale.

Her hair falls in gossamer strands about her face.

Her skirts swirl about her legs like a shroud.

Slowly, tremulously, her fingertips poke at her cheeks, nose, lips- run through her hair, catching on the silvery pearls and making them clink together in that melancholy death-toll- and then she wraps her hands round her middle, leaning into the warm of her own body.

B-but it's not enough...

It's still cold...

Not just her skin, either. Deep inside her, where her heart is- beating that steady rhythm out inside her ribcage thump thump thumping forever, pumping blood through the body of a girl who isn't truly alive- encased in ice.

She shivers.

It's not the same as when he held her.

He made her feel safe.

She looks around her new, strange surroundings slowly- and the harsh lighting is unpleasant, cutting through her vision and sending her thoughts scattering like funeral ashes from a pyre, but even so she still turns this way and that and searches.

Searches for who?

She's always been alone.

She doubts there's anybody there to look for.

Or, at least... anybody that would care...

I-it shouldn't hurt that much... if she's alone again...

She's been alone for a long time.

I-it shouldn't hurt...

I-it shouldn't...

But it does.

Clair's heart is still beating- and though the sound is dull, muted, she can hear it; hear the steady thump thump thump through her paper-white skin and beautiful dress.

She's not dead...

Why isn't she dead?

The sound of her own heartbeat dances, tenuously, through her ears; it flickers inside her chest like the flame of a candle.

A flame that should've been snuffed out a long time ago.

All sorts of ugly creatures gather round lighted candles...

All sorts of monsters...

Clair can feel eyes staring at her from the darkness; the eyes of thousands upon thousands of hissing and spitting and prowling creatures, all of them watching her, waiting.

Waiting for what...?

Where is she...?

Battler said he was going to kill her.

H-he was going to save her...

S-somehow, Clair vaux Bernardus feels betrayed.

Betrayal.

Another selfish emotion.

Another _human_ emotion...?

"Human? You? That's... that's kind of funny... Ahahaha..."

Clair eyes widen as she feels something sharp- something metallic- press against her stomach. There's a voice whispering (hissing) into her ear; it reminds her of a cat, an angry cat; of all those large, unblinking, feline eyes are still staring at her from the darkness as she... stands on the stage... under the spotlights... like a character in a play.

Playing a role.

Clair's still playing a role.

And it isn't the role of a princess...

"Don't you know that it's not a pieces' place to decide when it gets taken? No, it's not... Fufufu... That's the job of the game master... And if a piece gets taken in one game, it can always be picked up- polished- dusted off- and _put back on the board _in the next one. So stupid~ So naïve."

"A-ah... H-ha..." Clair breaths out softly, her voice tinged with the slightest trace of alarm. As she exhales she feels that sharp, metallic surface press into her stomach with just a touch more pressure than before- just a little...

It hurts...

The erratic beating of her heart hurts even more.

He made a promise, he said he'd save her; he'd come and rescue her on a white horse- where is he?

_B__ut he never made that promise with _you.

_Never... to _you.

"And guess who the game master is this time?~ It's not difficult~ And I like to play around with my character a _li~ttle _bit more than Bahh~ttler did! Fufufufu! Just because he didn't resurrect you in his game, it doesn't mean_ I_ can't in_ mine._.."

The eyes that bore into Clair's are hollow.

Empty.

They're devoid of any real human emotion- not like his, not at all like his, his eyes were so bright blue and warm and filled with so many emotions it almost hurt (he had eyes like the ocean)- but Clair can detect maybe the faintest trace of... madness... in the eyes of this person.

In their expression.

The girl that stands before Clair is fairly short, with a demure appearance; lily-white skin that shines sickly under the spotlights as though she has some sort of disease, with long blue hair that cascades down her back. Her bangs are cut straight across her face, casting dark black shadows over her eyes, over those horribly empty purple irises...

The girl with the blank face and deranged smile is holding a scythe.

Clair... knows who this is...

A shiver of fear runs down her spine.

This is the new game master.

And Battler... Battler is...

"If you're waiting for your 'prince', don't bother. He left with Beato already," says Bernkastel carelessly. "You thought he cared about you? How stupid..."

The words pierce through Clair with more force than that sharp sickle blade ever could.

Bernkastel admires the way the theater lights catch on the side of her blade, forming shimmering rainbow patterns across the silver metal- but she looks up, smiling (not a kind smile, not like his smile,_** this**_ smile is cold and dark and completely terrifying), to see Clair's reaction to her heartless words.

But Clair... can't say anything...

She's a doll.

She can't speak unless given words.

She repeats the phrase Bernkastel said over and over in her head, endless - a repeating mantra.

He left...

He left her...

B-but he never promised to save her, not really.

Clair's not the person Battler cared about.

Nobody... really cares for Clair vaux Bernardus.

Not even she does.

"He never loved you, Clair. And you're so empty, so pitiful and disgusting, I doubt you even know the meaning of the word anyway, even if you say you do," says Bernkastel. Her voice is cold.

Everything about Bernkastel makes Clair think of a corpse. It's almost as though she just crawled out a crypt, a morgue- and it feels like skeletal fingers, bony and decayed and diseased with age, are pressing round Clair's throat as that witch speaks.

"You think anybody would care about an empty vessel like you? That's... that's also kind of funny... A-and a little sad... Hahahaha..."

The blade of the sickle presses against Clair's stomach with more force.

It hurts.

It hurts-

Then a loud ripping sound cleaves through the air- splits through the frantic thump thump thump of Clair's numbered, laboured heartbeats that were ringing through her ears- as Bernkastel draws her scythe across Clair's stomach in a sweeping motion.

Skin tears off bone.

The floor is bathed with blood.

Internal organs have nothing left to protect them- to keep them together- so they spill out of Clair's body in a sickening ooze, glistening under the bright lights of the stage, hanging out the gash in her stomach and splattering her white dress bright red like some horrible impressionists' painting and black spots begin to eat up Clair's vision- her body slumps, not quite lifeless because she's still breathing but she exhales blood, to the stage floor.

Bernkastel stands over her, watching with amusement as Clair vaux Bernardus dies slowly- vomiting blood from her mouth onto her beautiful dress; that chain of pearls in her hair have snapped, they're all rolling across the floor, and Clair's hands go to the wound on her stomach and press against it but she can't keep everything inside can't keep feeding her illusion (she never believed in herself anyway) and slimy liquid and bits of her insides that were probably important slip past, press against the gaps of her fingers and she continues to bleed slowly, slowly...

When you read mystery novels, its best to love them first...

And take them apart later.

Tear out their insides.

Expose them for the world to see.

Clair vaux Bernardus is just another mystery novel- and now her inner workings have been laid bare for all those in the audience to watch and laugh.

Clair gasps.

S-she thought...

She thought she would...

T-that he would...

He said he would save her (he never said that about_ her_).

She thought he cared (but he's already gone).

S-she thought...

The feeling in her heart... hurts...

Her feelings began to grow so softly, so delicately, like a flower- beautiful, elegant. But the roots of that flower became deadly, sharp and spiky, and they dug into fragile muscle and wrapped round her heart like a snare- like long fingers with sharp nails- and those roots cut and sliced until it hurt to breathe because he was meant to save her but he didn't he didn't

he never even said he would

he never

never-

Bernkastel raises her scythe again in a graceful motion, swinging it back- it carves through the air effortlessly even though that witch is so small (she's done this before) and Clair knows she's going to die.

And be reborn.

And die again.

As die many times as that witch wants before she finally grows tired...

A-and how many years will that take?

Clair tries to hold her body together with her fingers but it's no good- it's too late- and she coughs out more blood, splattering against the floor; and it feels like her feelings, too, are being drained out of her body as she slowly dies.

She is a doll.

A broken doll.

An unwanted imaginary friend.

That was all she ever was.

That child doesn't want her.

And now Battler- the one person who made her feel... whole- doesn't want her either.

It takes two people to create a universe.

But, in this case, the only two people who ever loved Clair have disappeared.

When you get tired of toys

you throw them away

lock them up

in the

darkness

right?

She has no right to think.

She has no right to feel.

It takes two people to create a universe...

It takes two people

and they're both gone

Clair's going

And Clair thinks that this

can just be another

promise

That Ushiromiya Battler didn't keep.

Who would keep promises with a dead girl, anyway...?

* * *

In a near-empty space made of fragmented worlds, sparkling lights and shooting stars, Clair Vaux Bernardus drifts.

She supposes she should feel lonely. That seems only logical; after all, wasn't Shannon distraught when Battler never returned? Loneliness, like being lovesick, is a poison that plagues humans.

Clair has felt lonely once before.

But not now.

Never again.

She can hardly remember what it feels like... At all...

And Clair continues to drift.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

**a/n: **Cheerful ending ^_^;;  
I love Clair/Battler now, it's so adorable- and I would write more for it, but I feel any story I'd try to write with these two would end up similar to this anyway. So there might not be much point.

Finishing fics is a wonderful feeling :D

Thank you to everybody who read this/liked this, I'm glad you did ^_^ And you can have a reward (omg!)

I made a soundtrack of alll the songs I drew inspiration from to write this, and they're all very soft and pretty and mostly this fic was inspired by songs by Hannah Fury (although this last scene was completely inspired by one Miku song) so yeah, have fun :D You might not like the same music I like, but that's okay XD

h t t p : / / www . megaupload . com/?d=IKM0MGGO


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